


Frozen Quivers

by drunkinthemorning



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Patching each other's injured body, Sexual Tension, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-12-02
Packaged: 2018-03-06 20:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 35,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3148274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunkinthemorning/pseuds/drunkinthemorning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A re-imagining of when Oliver fell after his duel with the Demon's head. A tale, a little "what if", of when the daughter of Ra's Ah Ghul stumbled across a dying Arrow at the cliff's edge and decided to save him instead. A story, of entwining fate between the Emerald Archer, and the demon's heir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: I wrote this mostly because I was inspired by the potential those two could bring, also because I can't really find any other stories involving the two.
> 
> This story follows the TV universe, except without the romance between him and Felicity.

Dark, with a shade of niveous white. He blinked, his eyelids fluttering futilely against falling flakes of snow. The coldness seemed nothing but a fading afterthought, distant, an echo. A chilling embrace that blanketed him from all sides. He gasped as an icy gust swept across his battered form, his hand quickly moving to shield his eyes from the falling snow.

He felt something wet brushing across his cheeks, leaving the sticky fluid across his face. Looking towards his arm, he noticed that it was stained crimson, from fingertip to palm. His eyes darted to his surroundings, but only whitened treetops greeted him. He could not move, his body felt detached, broken.

_"Forgive and have mercy upon him..."_

He grunted, his body screaming in defiance, his face contorting in pain as memories shot through his pain ridden skull like insistent stars upon darkened night skies.

_It took only a single second for his conscious mind to articulate the factors that his unconsciousness wordlessly spotted and assessed. A skill that took him years to master, one that kept him equally alive for so as long. It was not simply about knowing his surroundings, but understanding everything around him. From how they could affect him, to how he could turn them to his advantage. From every single escape route, to every single vantage point._

"... Excuse him and pardon him, make honorable his reception..."

_Yet as much he knew of his surroundings, his opponent moved in a fashion he could not match. Ra's Al Ghul blocked the younger man's much stronger blows with a speed and accuracy unlike any he had ever seen, including the ones fueled by the Mirakuru serum. It was not a fair fight by any definition._

_His arms felt heavier with each blow, yet the other barely broke a sweat. The blade felt unnecessarily clumsy and unrefined in his, yet it moved fluidly in the Ra's grip. Like a part of the man's own arm._

_"...protect him from the punishment of the grave..."_

_It was not long before he fell like the fool that he was, defeated as forged steel tore into his naked chest, penetrating flesh and sinew without effort, a mouthful of blood as the reddened liquid gushed outwards from the gaping wound._

_And then weightlessness, as the cliff's wall rose while he fell._

_"... and the torment of the fire."_  
  
And fire he felt, his screams echoing as black feathers flew in response, crows squawking riotously from nearby trees, sent flying from his agonizing cries. He looked downwards, an intense torrent originating from where he was struck, one that quickly expanded outwards, an unquenchable flame that rapidly engulfed his entire form.

His body muscles tightened in response to the pain, his breathing coming in rigorous strides as his fingers dug into the snow around him. He quickly threw a clump of ice over his wound, but it did little to alleviate his misery. He was choking, his lungs seemed to have lost the ability to inhale.

He coughed harder, each constriction of his chest expelling a little bit more of his blood into the air. When it finally became easier for him to breath, he laid still for a long time, trying to regain his balance, to compose his body. Still, he could not move. Something was broken, he had to find out what.

He tried to lift himself up, only to fall awkwardly onto his left arm, realizing that his right had not moved the entire time. Looking to his side, he saw his own elbow twisted at an extreme angle, the sharp edge of what seemed to be bone protruding out of his bloodied arm. The entire limb was blue-ish pale from his shoulders down, most likely due to the effects of onsetting frostbite.

The mind it seemed, worked in mysterious ways. And like how his memory invoked pain from where the blade pierced flesh, it was then... his body noticed his broken arm.

The agony that followed, was indescribably more than anything he had ever felt, as darkness quickly consumed him.

_It's been 67 years since someone challenged me_   
_Heir to the demon._   
_Oliver..._   
_Choose..._   
_Oliver!_   
_Oliver!_   
_Do you covet death so much?_

He burst free from within suffocating sheets, his hands grasping for an unseen assailant even before he knew he had fully awaken. Cold metal brushed across his ribs, he convulsed in horror, only to realize that his entire right arm was coated in an armor of metallic origin, in a shade of dull black.

His could feel his heart wildly thumping as he tore at the edge of the armor, yet as hard as he pulled, they could not be removed. He could see where the ends of his shoulders stopped and where the metal begin, he could see the scarred flesh, feared as he remembered the way his arm looked after he fell, the mangled flesh, the protruding bones.

He could not move the metallic fingers, and he dared not imagine what laid underneath. He removed the sheets that covered him, noticing the bandages that were surgically wrapped around his lower chest, a dampened pinkish spot where his frantic actions resulted in the reopening of his wound.

The man was in a hut of sorts, in a condition as dismal as he was. Dark and dusty with the existence of a boarded shut nearby window, neither chairs nor tables were in sight. The curtains once white, now stood grey and torn, as lifeless as everything else was.

Then, a soft crack, as the doors started to swing inwards.


	2. Chapter 2

"You are awake."

A contrasting voice accompanied the raging snow from outside the tiny hut, as turbulent winds forced against the opened door like wrathful demons. The entrance was quickly pulled shut, effectively shielding them from the outside violence.

"You seem to have forgotten who it was that saved your life," Nyssa al Ghul's tone was non-threatening as her eyes fixed onto his uninjured arm, but an air of ambivalence was clearly held between them both.

"Where am I?" He demanded as his grip tightened around the nail he hastily dug from one of the wooden boards behind him, an impractical and ineffectual weapon. But still a weapon nonetheless.

"Somewhere that is..." She paused as she removed the winter hood that was wrapped around her face, freeing a headful of darkened locks as tufts of her hair mopped against her forehead, "safe."

The man's posture somewhat relaxed in response, but tension and unease still clouded between them both. The nailed tapped lightly against the wall, "are we..." he closed his eyes for a moment, "still in Nanda Parbat?" He did not require an answer, it was rhetorical, nowhere else on Earth existed a place with such hellish glacial winds.

"Why?" He asked, "why save me?"

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

_A miracle, she believed so. He was barely alive, no, more dead than still amongst the living. She watched as his chest weakly rose, a feeble effort that barely seemed noticeable. It was desperate, yet for some reason, his body held on. It took a brief second for her to access his situation, the man was critically injured, if she were to leave him, he would surely die._

_His wounds, the temperature, the wolves, he stood no chance. The ice was somewhat of a blessing, it prevented the excess loss of blood from the wounds that her father inflicted upon him, but the man's right arm was already gone, unsalvageable. Not only was it brutally twisted from the elbow down, but the entire thing was already in a darkened shade of blue due to frostbite._

_She did not hesitate, her blade coming down in a clean sweep, there was barely any blood._

_She cut a piece of the cloak that she wore, making a tourniquet for the man before tenderly lifting him onto a sort of makeshift sled that she had brought along. Dusk already came by, the nights were even more so dangerous than an assassin's blade. She started to pull, the ropes tore into her gloves, her hands bled. But they survived._

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

She looked away, his question hung unanswered between them both, a moment of uneasy silence. Her imagined scenario of how their conversations would go when he regained consciousness seemed quite different from what was occurring. She preferred him unconscious, like the way he was for the entirety of the previous month.

Or at least the second half of that month. Unlike the very start when he was plagued with constant fever, when he slipped in and out of a delirious state due to the on-setting infection of his wounds. It could have been easily prevented with basic or simple medical supplies, but those were not found in this secluded part of the world.

Instead, she depended on a variety of different herbs that grew naturally on this side of the mountains.

He did not know of the things she did, he thought of himself as a prisoner, or perhaps a sort of future motive of theirs. She did not blame him, yet the Demon's heir knew not of how to explain their predicament.

"What else does Ra's al Ghul want from me," his voice freed her from her thoughts, straining as he tried to get up onto his feet, "what is -"

"Ra's al Ghul thinks you're dead." She interrupted as she turned towards him, her gaze rising in his direction as her face contorted into one of hatred, "they all think you're dead. I found you barely alive by the cliff's edge. I told them you were dead."

He did not speak, though with it grew even more questions that he sought to be answered, but one thing was very much clear. She saved him.

"Thank you."

"My arm," he asked afterwards as he lifted it from beneath the dusty sheets, the dull metal felt heavy and clumsy, the image of his broken arm before he lost consciousness still burned brightly in his mind, "I assume that it was... too late?"

She nodded, knowing fully well how difficult it was for him, even more so being that he might never fire an arrow again. It worried her, the things he might do in such a state, she knew of his stubbornness, a common trait in most men she had dealt with before, some more prominent than the others.

"You have the village doctor to thank for that contraption. He works as the blacksmith as well, thus the design. A very talented old man. He helped with most of your wounds while I was trying to get the proper medicinal herbs from the village's garden. Not an easy task considering most of them were withered frozen."

She continued with her explanation, "it was made from the ores mined near the springs beneath Nanda Parbat, a small cavern lake, said to hold magical healing properties."

He studied the glove-like object, it fitted him like an actual arm, though a little bulkier. His rational mind dismissed the object's healing potential, but with what he had seen in the past few years, coupled with his recently amputated arm's lack of discomfort and pain, he felt a little swayed in his beliefs.

"Garden? Village? Doctor?" He was plagued with more questions that he could ask.

"The village?" She repeated as a matter-of-factly, "yes we do have a functioning village, with young and old. Did you think that Nanda Parbat was a place where only assassins reside, without a functioning society?"

His chuckle startled her, it was... unexpected. "That was exactly what I thought."

She approached him, noticing the new stains of red that covered the front of his bandages, "we need to change your wrappings," she muttered as she reached for the bags that she brought along with her, "getting them infected again would not be the best of ideas."

She sat on the edge of his bed, her body barely making a dent on the cushions, a fresh roll of bandages and a flask of what seemed to be ointment in her hands, "I will help you. You will only embarrass yourself with one arm."

Harsh, but not something he completely disagreed with. Brushing the cushions aside, he positioned himself beside her, giving her an easier approach and angle. He shivered as her fingers brushed against his skin, she was gentle and careful, the cool ointment quickly glossed over his newest scar, as meticulous yet as light as one possibly could.

She leaned closer as the bandages started to cover his ribs, each layered tenderly over the previous. He could feel her warm breath against his naked skin, the proximity between them both was a little too close for his comfort. He looked away, but she didn't seem to have noticed, or even cared.

"A month," she replied afterwards when he asked, "you were out for a full month."

That astounded him, it was a lot longer than he expected, especially on the note of him leaving Starling to face Ra's Al Ghul. His own team must have thought that he fell in combat. "I need to get back." His voice was shaky, filled with worry, "they need me. I need to go back to Starling."

"Have you lost your brain as well?" She motioned towards the outside world, "look around you, we're on one of the highest points of the Tibetan mountains, enduring one of the coldest winters in a thousand years."

"You will not survive a day, much less the month's trek across such terrains to the nearest inhabited village."

"Then what do I do?" His voice was strained, "to wait for my death in this cold and god forsaken mountain?"

"No," she whispered as her fingers dug into the sheets beneath them, twisting it into her palm, "you heal up, you train, you become stronger."

"And then, we will kill Ra's al Ghul together."

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**


	3. Chapter 3

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

**Chapter: 3**  
  
He had considered every possible way out of this icy terrain, but he knew that her logic was ultimately unflawed. There was nothing else he could do but to stay and endure the harsh winter. He was trapped, stuck on the side of a mountain. It would be suicide to try and attempt a trek to the next closest inhabited city, especially with these odds so stacked against him. He considered every other option, every variety of possible escape. There were none. He'll have to survive winter.

His time on the island helped little, the climate was vastly different, and he was not forced into a tiny enclave on the former. He had full control of both his arms too. But unlike surviving on the island, she helped.

She brought him the necessities from time to time, from food to a daily change of old tattered robes that smelt of both blood and dust, but he wasn't complaining. He knew of the dangers outside, of not just the weather but the risks of being seen. Sometimes, he lost track of time, could no longer tell the difference between day or night, the only constant in this tiny hut was the persistent hail of wind against the tiny building and the pelting of snow against its roof.

So he trained, from days that quickly turned into weeks. He have to not only maintain his strength, but to find balance between his two different arms. It still felt weird, detached and unnatural. But he was slowly getting the hang of it. He needed more than anything else to prepare for the inevitable fight that he would soon enough face, when winter ends.

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

_The tattooed man felt neither her presence nor suspected a single thing, an unsurprising fact due to the years she trained to mask her own aura. She knew she had to stay close, a gun was too loud, would draw unnecessary attention. She needed something small, something that could be used at close range, a knife would be perfect, one laced with the deadliest of poisons._

_The man's movement suddenly sped up, his palm slipping upwards into his jacket, a movement performed so quickly she almost missed the blade that appeared. Her heart thudded like a war drum._

_Somehow he knew._

_He turned into an alleyway, she followed, her grip tightening with such strength, her knuckles bore white._

_Darkness engulfed her as she walked through the confined space. There was barely a warning, the rustling of rats as an arm shot forth from within the enclosed darkness. She dropped quickly to her knees as her training took over her instincts, feeling a brush of wind as his blade sliced through where her head was moments ago. She reacted instantly, dropping her shoulders, making her body a smaller and harder target as she drove herself into the side of his ribs._

_With her attack sending the man out of balance, she used their momentum to drive her elbow into his exposed chest, sending him stumbling backwards, staggering as he wheezed in pain. She gave him no time to catch his breath, a single pivot and she flew in his direction. They both tumbled across the ground, her own weapon brandished in her palm, the blade's sharpened end quickly pressing against the man's throat._

_He tried to stop her, but the blade was already drawing blood, the poison soon taking hold. She pulled deeper, the man grew ever more desperate. An arm shot towards the side of her skull, sending her head snapping to the side, she lost her grip, allowing him to grasp blindly for yet another hidden blade, this time an unavoidable one._

_She barely screamed as she felt the blade piercing through her palm, her voice muffled by training, yet the pain persisted brilliantly. Her own blood trailed down her palm, mixing with the red from his neck, but still she held on.  
_   
_Another blade, into the side of her ribs. Her armor was thick, but still he drew blood. She grunted, but regained her grapple. Her legs, as flexible as a gymnast with years of training, quickly wrapped around the man side, pinning his arms to the ground as more pressure was applied towards his neck._

_The man's struggle soon grew weak, running out of blades as his left hand feebly peeled at hers, but with his mobility gone, she had him exactly where she wanted him. She pulled, he gurgled in response, blood pouring uninterrupted from his wound. He tried to clasp onto his neck, to stem the flow of blood, but she gave him no reprieve._

_She held on, even as the body eventually stopped shuddering, even after lifeless eyes looked up in her direction. She was battered, bloodied. She trembled, her first kill, the first of many._

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

She jerked awake, the familiar setting greeting her as she slipped back into consciousness. She must have fallen asleep. Her fingers were unconsciously prodding against the knife wound at the back of her palm, it felt like a memory from almost a century ago. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dimmed room before noticing him, Oliver Queen, upside down by the other end of the room. She blinked again, her eyes were not playing tricks.

His head dipped downwards as he leaned back against the wall, balancing only on a single uninjured hand as he performed handstand push-ups. She watched, fascinated by his routine. He tilted slightly, no longer using the wall, freestanding as he dropped down, holding for a long moment before pushing himself back up, she did not know how many he had done before she started watching, but she soon counted another hundred before he propped himself back up onto his feet.

Many nights she laid awake wondering if she had made the right choice in saving this man, but she knew that for her plans to succeed, she had no other choice but to trust him. After all, they both wanted the same thing.

"Come," she said as she tossed another pile of darkened robes in his direction, "get dressed. We're heading out."

"My father is out on a mission with half of his men, we'll be heading into the village for supplies. There will still be guards, so be ever vigilant... and stay out of sight.

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

Coldness.

It lashed away at every exposed part of his body, frigid winds that blew painfully against his hooded form. He could barely see beyond the raging tides, the relentless winds reducing visibility to below zero. It felt as though he just stepped through the gates of a frozen hell. He could neither tell up nor down, the sky indistinguishable from the ground, just a dizzying vortex of white.

Tiny specks of crystalline ice were hurled at him from all directions, peppering him with chills below negative degrees, he grasped blindly at the air in front of him, no longer able to see even where he came from. He spun, an arm pressed above his eyes, trying to shield himself from the snow, but it was to no avail. An embarrassing attempt, useless as he continued to be assaulted from all ends.

He staggered, his feet stumbling through inches of deep snow; he struggled to regain his balance, trying to find a firm grip when his foot suddenly came up empty. Nothing met his falling soles, neither ground nor snow. One thing quickly registered at the back of his mind - the mountain's edge.

His arms swung wildly, trying to hold on to something, anything. But nothing was there. Nothing but the snow.

A sharp intake of breath, his body tensed as he was suddenly stilled, held firmly by an outstretched arm that gripped onto the back of his cloak at the last moment. He felt himself being pulled away from the unseen drop, by hands firm and steady.

They stood still for a moment, his eyes quickly adjusting to the winds around them, allowing him to peek over where he almost fell, a crevice that led seemingly to the bottom of the world.

He could not see her, but felt her fingers taking his in as she guided them away. In the direction of the village she spoke of. He shouted, asking her if she knew where she was going, if she could possibly even remember the path in such weather.

She could not hear him over the raging winds, neither could he see where they were headed towards. But if he were to have stood in front of her, he would have noticed that her eyes were closed the entire time, guided by something stronger than even their eyes could seen.

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

Out of the cold and into the darkness. Echoes rang out with each footstep as they entered an enclosed area, leaving the howling winds behind. They were in a cave of some sort with zero luminosity; the entirety of it was shrouded in darkness.

"Follow me," her voice was barely above a whisper, her fingers brushed against his before she took him in her own, entwined as they headed away from the storm. For almost an hour they walked in the darkness, the place was eerily quiet, nothing existed except the sound of their breathing and a slithering noise every now and then. He did not question her, fully trusting she knew her way out of the darkness, and that they were not walking into a trap.

It was not long before he could hear the distant rumbling of civilization, their footsteps slowing as they approached a streak of light at the end of their path. She told him to stay still as she checked out their surroundings.

Leaving him to his lonesome, she disappeared around a corner.

She returned minutes later, hastily urging him to follow, sunlight greeting him as they exited the darkened cave. His eyes widened for a brief moment at the unbelievable sight in front of him, before quickly moving after her, crunching into soil beneath his feet. Leaves were pushed aside as he ventured further onwards, brushing through more vegetation as the screeching of nearby animals were heard. Trees stood strongly all around him, as birds of color not seen to the rest of the world, took to the canopies above.

Unbelievably so, they entered a forest, a hidden oasis within the Tibetan mountains, Nyssa's home, Nanda Parbat.

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heelia is a little OC I created particularly for this scene. There may be a chance for her to return, there may not.

It was almost like stepping through into a painting of lush greenness, its canvas covered with multitudes of gorgeous blossoming flowers, each mystical in its own different way. It felt like they walked into the side of an icy mountain and found themselves at the entrance of a botanical garden of sorts. Yet he knew that they were still in the heart of the Tibetan mountains, a fact that made this oasis even more so impossible and magical. Cavern walls surrounded them from all corners, shooting towards the skies above, illuminated by what seemed to be rays of sunlight filtered through the ceiling.

It was only then he realized that they were still inside of the mountain. The ceiling coruscated brilliantly, almost as though it was shining… like ice. They were in something that resembled a volcano's crater, with the funnel's exit at the very top covered by a layer of transparent ice. One that shrouded the entire area around them with artificial sunlight.

A mythical cave… where the deadliest of assassins call home.

They kept themselves low to the ground, keeping their bodies as unexposed as possible. As they headed towards her village, only the slight ruffling of leaves left any indication of their passage. The cave soon grew darker as they closed in on their destination, the fake sky above them starting to lose its illumination as the night crept steadily by.

"We need to find shelter soon," Nyssa stopped in her tracks, "the piece of ice above acts as a conductor, it channels the sunlight and illuminates the cavern, giving it warmth." A slight hint of uneasiness in her voice, "but as night falls, the cold returns. We must hurry, or they'll find our frozen bodies in the morning."

As she spoke those words, she was gone, leaving a trail of fluttering leaves as she ducked into the wall of green. He quickly followed in her direction, making sure as to not leave too much of an obvious intrusion across the forest. It was not long before he understood her concerns. The trees around them were starting to turn white, as each breath sent a misty wave of air in front of him. He tightened his coat in response as they eventually burst free of the enclosed forest, coming upon a castle by an empty clearing.

It looked like a page off a medieval tale, a large stone building in the center of the clearing, with a dozen other smaller ones that surrounded it. It wasn't hard to guess which the league's base was. He could see dozens of tiny fires from where they stood, lighting up the growing darkness, notifying them of the villagers' presence.

"Come," her voice was low as they crept towards the village, "there are lesser guards tonight due to my father's absence. Even so, we must remain hidden; the illusion of your death is our greatest strength."

He agreed with her statement, nodding as he lifted the coat's hood over his head, hiding his features as they entered the village's gate. He kept his head pointed to the ground, trying to avoid any unnecessary attention as they soon left behind soil and snow, crunching against hardened gravel instead. It was the first bit of civilization he had encountered in weeks. Hung lanterns illuminated the area with an eerie glare.

To his surprise, men and women of all ages walked by them, barely noticing the two as they crossed paths. It felt like he was in an actual functioning society, walking through the markets of a medieval castle. He noticed men leaning against the walls, with long blades kept to their sides, while they reminded him of the dangers that laid close by, women with basketful of groceries walked by at the same time, bringing a hint of normality towards this strange place.

They stopped by a derelict alleyway, next to a door with a hanging sign that wrote faded words that were no longer recognizable by the human eye. "Stay here," she turned towards him, "the person that owns this store is able to produce medical herbs of the rarest properties. She is a friend, but there is no saying as to what she'll do if she learns of your presence. We must not take any unnecessary risks."

As the doors closed behind her, he leaned back against the opposite walls, sighing as he brought his uninjured hand up to the side of his chest. It was starting to hurt again. While he focused on training his physical state during his recovery, it was always done slow and with care. He grimaced in pain as he pressed onto the side of his clothing, it felt damp. His wounds seemed to have opened up once again.

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

"Hey."

He froze at the approaching voice. A man dressed in black colored armor, presumably a guard.

"Did you not hear me? Hey!"

Oliver remained quiet, his posture unmoving. His drawn hood gave him the advantage of keeping his identity hidden.

"All villager are supposed to be back in their homes by night fall, why are you here!? Did you not heard what I just said? What are you-"

Slowly turning towards the approaching guard, Oliver extended his arm towards him, revealing the ball of snow in his palm. "Snowball fight?"

Watching the second of uncertainty and confusion rippling across the guard's face as he stopped in his tracks, it was all that Oliver needed to close the gap between them both. The ball of snow flew towards the man's face, shattering into billions of tiny snowflakes as he stumbled backwards in surprise. The guard reached for his sheathed weapon, trying to draw it out but quickly meeting the hooded man's boot halfway through. Using his momentum, Oliver kicked the blade back into its scabbard, preventing the guard from even drawing his weapon at all. His arm looped around the man's neck moments later, as they struggled across the alleyway.

The inside of his arm pressed against the man's windpipe, keeping his opponent in a locked hold as Oliver started to tightly squeeze. The guard struggled hard, his body flailing as he tried to break free of the hold, his own elbow smashing against the side of Oliver's chest, the full brunt of it against his wound. Oliver's knees gave way instantly, crumpling as pain exploded from his unhealed injuries, as blood seeped into the icy grounds below.

The other man shook his head, trying to regain his balance, to get oxygen into his derived brain. With his eyes jammed shut from the agony, Oliver opened them only to see the guard's blade swinging down in his direction. Unable to defend himself nor to move out of the way, his brain led to gradual instinct, his hand raising upwards futilely to shield himself from the sword.

The sound of metal surprised them both. Expecting the blade to tear through muscle and sinew, it was only then he realized that he was saved by his own metallic arm. Sparks flew as they crashed upon the other, allowing Oliver to quickly kick the man's leg out from underneath him, sending him falling into the snow as well.

Oliver then reached behind him, looking for anything he could possibly use as a weapon before finding out that he no longer needed to. The man fell onto his own blade, a crimson edge protruding out from his back.

Even if they do successfully hide the body, it would only be a matter of time before someone notices the missing guard. Not good at all.

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

The sound of water trickled from somewhere nearby in the enveloping darkness. She was greeted by the familiar scent of a dozen different herbs, intoxication-ly overbearing, but she knew that it was exactly how the owner of this little establishment preferred. Passing by an occupied basket that smelled particularly of basil and orange blossoms, she couldn't help but to wonder how exactly does one procures such herbs on mountainous and icy terrain.

She was peaking around a curtain covered entrance when the wooden walls behind her exploded, covering her with dozens of tiny splinters. She ducked in response, feeling the vibrations around her as remnants of the walls collided against her.

Instead of rolling out of harm's way, or to launch herself at her assailant, she simply stood back up, her arms in the air, "it's me, don't shoot,"

Slowly, she pivoted from her semi crouched position, holding her empty arms to her side. A young girl stood in front of her, holding a gigantic contraption that resembled a rifle of sorts. It required both of her tiny arms to lift up, and it was pointed right at Nyssa, its hollowed end still smoking from the previous shot.

"Nyssa!" The girl's face slowly turned into one of joy, smiling as she dropped the weapon and hopped over to the person whom she just shot at moments before.

She jumped into the older woman's arm, their height difference prominent as she pressed her face into Nyssa's armored bosom.

Smiling as her fingers ran through the little girl's hair, Nyssa pointed to the discarded weapon, feigned anger in her voice, "Heelia, did you really just try to kill me?"

Pressing her fingers against the point of impact, she could still feel the heat radiating from the shattered wood. The smell of gunpowder lingered in the air.

"Don't worry…" the girl's voice was slightly muffled, her eyes closed as she tightly hugged her older friend, "it's not lethal. I plan to only stun… or… you know, slightly decapitate the boys that have been hanging around outside of my store."

"Soooo…" she giggled as she eventually let go and took a step back, "it's been so long since you've last visited little Heelia here, what brings you here today? Other than to see me of course!"

Grinning at that last bit in her sentence, Nyssa reached into her cloak and removed a piece of paper.

Taking the tiny piece of parchment from Nyssa, the little girl started scrambling across the room, opening random baskets and pulling tiny packets of herbs from each. "White willow bark… Cayenne… Garlic…"

"Interesting…" she whispered, suddenly looking wiser than her full age of twelve, then with a suspiciously raised eyebrow, "what are you doing with these? They're not your standard choice of herbs, in fact, they're quite the opposite. Are you injured? You don't seem to be injured. Who are those for?"

"They're no-"

Before she could come up with an answer, a loud crash came from outside of the building, prompting Nyssa into immediate action. She leapt towards the exit, her grip firmly on her sheathed weapon as she kicked the doors open.

She landed in the snow covered alleyway, barely leaving marks on the ground as Heelia peeked her head out from the warmth of her store. Though she could spot no immediate danger, Nyssa's grip still remained on her weapon as her eyes pierced into the darkened corners. When eventually satisfied that no danger was in sight; she moved past the prone body and approached Oliver, squatting down beside him.

"Help me up," he groaned as he latched an arm around her shoulders, she recognized the insignia stitched into the dead man's clothing, he was a sentry. There were no questions as to what happened here. A stroke of bad luck, perhaps a warning of things to come, a premonition.

She also noticed the reddened ice beneath him, the darkened pools of blood that stained the side of his body. "Your wound, it's…"

"We have to move him first." He shot back instantly, his face impassive, not revealing much of his injured state. "We have to…" Before he could finish, he fell back down onto one knee, grunting as his face contorted in agony, his hands quickly darting to the side of his body.

"He is still bleeding. The wound is not properly closed."

A soft voice came from behind them both, startling the crouching man for a brief moment before he locked eyes with his companion and understood that the girl was on their side.

Sighing heavily, Heelia stepped out into the freezing weather, cursing at the newfound predicament she was just forced into. "Get him inside," she muttered as she heaved a shovel onto her back, "I'll get rid of this guy."

"Sometimes… I think I'm tougher than all of you combined."

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	5. Chapter 5

The two of them staggered into the tiny herb store, his body heavily leaning against hers for balance as they traversed across the messy room. He found a couple of stacked up bags filled with what they assumed were the store's wares, a soft cushion of sorts as he then eased himself against them. Her eyes were filled with concern as he peeled back the bloodied cloth, revealing the gaping wound that laid underneath.

She disappeared for a brief moment, returning hastily seconds later with a towel fashioned from her own torn cloak. She gathered up the falling snow from a nearby window, wrapping them inside of the cloth she held. Kneeling down beside him, she pressed the ice below his wound.

His entire body jerked in response to the makeshift ice pack, pain jolting through his injured frame. But almost instantaneously, it helped alleviate the growing agony, turning it into something of a dull throb. She pressed it against the underside of his wound, gently against the swollen skin, cold in contrast to her warm grip.

"We need to stitch the wound up soon." She muttered as she studied his injury, before her features softened and asked, "how does it feel?"

"You should have seen the other guy."

She smiled at his reply, a tiny glint by the side of her eyes. Yet as brief as it was, it disappeared with equal suddenness, her body straightening as the sound of a door's rusty hinge greeted them. Staring at the entranceway, it was only until Heelia's tiny form waddled back into the room, before her tensed shoulders gave way.

"Did anyone see you?"

The little girl shook her head, "there's this trench at the back of the building, no one would find the body until the snow melts during summer." A darker grin followed by, "which is perfect, the decomposed body would do well for my herbs."

"I'll check it out just to be safe."

Passing the icepack to Oliver, Nyssa reached for her hung blade before returning to the roaring snow outside.

In more ways than one, the weather was like a blessing of sorts. The torrential snow quickly wiped clean the traces of their existence, their footsteps rapidly replaced by an unblemished and untouched layer.

Pulling her cloak tighter around herself, she moved out into the open, staring down both ends of the alleyway, daring any unseen assailant to follow after her. Her movements were as light as one would imagine a seasoned killer, filled with celerity as she ran up a pile of boxes, using the momentum to leap up into the air.

Her fingers brushed against the edge of the hut's roof, clinging onto them as she pulled herself up. Standing still, she looked down into the deserted alleyway before taking a step back, a running leap as she flung herself across to the building opposite of hers.

She grunted as she slammed against the stone surface, but was quick to find a grip along the opposite balcony, heaving herself up onto a better vantage point. In a way, she was exposed, her actions deliberately different from the way they snuck into this village, but it was a lot more aggressive too.

While the latter would allow them to enter undetected, they won't be able to flush out any hidden followers or sentries. Putting herself out into the open this way, they would have to choose between revealing themselves or to stay hidden in order to not alert her, giving her the chance to slip quietly away.

As Nyssa continued with her reconnaissance, scouting for concealed dangers outside, the night grew late, softening the contours of the tiny village as fatigue imposed upon the three.

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With a growing curiosity, Heelia approached the crouched man, her eyes burning eagerly with intrigue. "Who are you?" Her lips pouted in a sort of feigned annoyance, "why are you with my Nyssa?"

"It's a long story." He shifted himself upright, by then, the ice had already fully melted, his wound promptly closed by the dozens of crisscrossing lines, Heelia's proud handiwork. It was a lot cleaner and way less excruciating than he imagined, though her deft movements and the grounded herbs she fed him earlier might have helped.

"We are… working together on something."

"You mean, you're trying to kill someone." She laughed as she flopped onto one of the bags beside him, "I might be young, but I'm not entirely stupid." She looked around the room, like she was making sure that they were truly alone before she leaned close and whispered, "is it someone in the League? The two of you wouldn't be here if it's someone from the outside."

"You would have to ask Nyssa," he chuckled with the smile of a defeated man, "I'm just following along with her plans, hoping that they won't lead us to certain death."

"Do you not trust her?"

"I…" He muttered, thinking of all the things she had done since she found him by the cliff's edge, "I do. A month ago I was this close from knocking on death's door; she was the one who pulled me back, who saved me. My fate rested entirely on her, and today I'm still alive."

"But," his voice was a little shaky as he spoke, "I'm now accompanying her on a suicide mission without the slightest hint of a plan. She refused to tell me the reasons nor the purposes of her mission, no matter the times I've asked."

"It feels like as if-"

"She trusts you." Heelia's voice was filled with confidence, "it might not seem that way, but I just know." She moved closer to him, trying to share the blankets that they've found, "Nyssa's not like the rest of us, Ollie." She snuggled against the older man, speaking like they were already the best of friends, "her father is Ra's al Ghul, she grew up as the Demon's Heir. You do not know of the… things he put her through."

"She just… expresses differently." She yawned as she pressed her head against the side of his body, the opposite end of his wounded portion as to not hurt him. "You should have seen her face when she heard you and the other guy fighting outside. She acts all tough but on the inside… she's-"

Her voice trailed off as the little girl fell asleep, leaving a very much amused Oliver, bewildered at his own predicament.

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She crouched hidden behind a barricade of rubble that was once part of a collapsed wall, away from the oil lanterns that illuminated the courtyards around them with a fiery glow, one not yet extinguished by the on-setting frost. She was bundled up in the winter's cold, yet neither her thick cloak nor her insulated gloves shielded her much against the unrelenting winds. Gust carried newly fallen snow up in what looked like tiny powdered whirlwinds, but still she remained unmoving in the frigid and bitter cold.

The place itself was eerily quiet, except for the approaching sounds of horses, their hooves thundering even against the softened snow. She counted more than a dozen, and it terrified her. None other would travel in such treacherous weather, none other than the Demon's head, her very own father, Ra's al Ghul.

For some reason or another, the man was returning earlier than planned, and it frightened her.

She thought of memories passed, of earlier years, of childhood. The many times she tried running away, the times she lied or stole from the man. Never once did she manage to leave with anything less than bruised cheeks or bleeding lips. There was nothing that escaped Ra's knowledge and with his timely arrival, she was stricken with terror. She tried to convince herself otherwise, that it was nothing more than simple coincidences. Perhaps her father finished his mission early, a dozen different excuses flashed through her mind, yet deep inside her pounding heart, she knew otherwise.

_Her father suspects._

It only further confirmed her growing suspicions when three of the men kneeling by the dismounting figure's side darted off into the shadows, towards the direction where she came from. She quickly slipped away from her hiding spot, vaulting over the low walls behind her, throwing a final glance towards the returning party.

Only to meet her father's stoic gaze.

She ran with the heavy thumping in her chest, faster than she ever did. Her boots dug into the falling snow with each step, her fingers strained as she pulled herself up each increasing ledge.

Over quiet rooftops she leapt, her senses went into overdrive, a fresh surge of adrenaline pumping across her veins. As she got closer in the direction of Heelia's store, she noticed the presence of another. She stopped in her tracks, her eyes closed, her head tilted backwards. She honed in on her training, the ability to see beyond the limits of ordinary perception. She could feel the environment come alive around her, the sounds of falling snow against the fabric of clothing, the tautness of a pulled string.

She felt the arrow's disturbance even before she saw it, heard the slicing of snow as she suddenly jerked towards her right, her body spinning entirely across the air as a volley of missed arrows flew past beneath her.

They struck where she would have been had she continued on further. But dodging was not all that she did. As she flung herself in the direction of where the arrows came from, she reached into her cloak, her fingers finding a metallic rod just as a brief shimmer of moonlight notified her of her target's movements.

Dashing towards it, she jumped off the edge of the roof, the momentum of her body fixing towards where she last saw the blurred movement. As she revealed her own weapon, the metal rod she held instantaneously expended, the gears within whirling noisily as tiny puffs of steam shot out from both ends. A straight blade, double edged like a gladius fully extended on each side. The weapon itself was a mixture of inlaid ivory and obsidian, somewhat ceremonial, but more than sharp enough to kill.

The weapon slammed into the chest of the first assassin, plowing him down onto the ground as she used his body to absorb the full force of their falling bodies, tumbling them both across the deserted alleyways. Only seconds after they fell, she was already back up on her feet, her boot pressed to where the blade struck, pushing back the body and freeing her weapon. She gave no care to the crumpled body, her movements quickly sending her down the alley's path.

She slid across the store's entrance, no longer caring about stealth. Noticing the two resting forms inside of the room, she shouted, "We have to move-"

She did not manage to finish her sentence, interrupted by her own pained yelps as she felt the piercing ends of two different arrows sink into the upper back of her shoulder blades. They propelled her forward and into the side of an herb filled table. She crashed onto the ground, feeling the soft leaves sliding across her crumpled form. She tried to pull the arrows out from her back when she realized that neither of her limbs were responding to command.

_Poison._

A single word crossed her mind, venom from a particular type of snake that existed only within Nanda Parbat's caves. A poison the League of Assassins harvested and used for centuries, including the woman herself. Except never once did she expect to find herself on the opposite end of one.

She could not breath either, her chest felt constricted, paralyzed. She noticed Oliver quickly by her side, kneeling down beside her with a worried expression. He shook her, but there was no response. She could see his lips moving, but she could not make out the words as darkness quickly clouded the edges of her vision. Her body started to spasm, still not managing to draw oxygen and before she was eventually overcame by the enveloping darkness, she heard the voice of the one man she feared above all.

"So... Oliver Queen lives."

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	6. Chapter 6

Oliver understood the woman's haste the moment she exploded into the building, ignoring the throbbing pains as he quickly got up onto his feet. He looked towards her, surprised by the fear that clouded her features. Nyssa was afraid, an almost unnatural sight. It meant that he should be too. He reached for their weapons, only to see his companion crashing onto the table beside them, her crumpled form unmoving. Sliding down beside her, he noticed the two arrows that were sticking into her back. They were simple flesh wounds, nothing fatal. But from her lack of response and the growing twitches of her body, he knew what they contained, _poison_.

Gripping onto their shaft, he pulled them both out of her body, just as he felt the arms of another wrapping onto him from behind. An alarm blared inside of his head, a warning just as another assassin fell from the ceilings above. He reacted instantly, stomping onto the foot of the person behind him, using the man's surprise to slide downwards, gathering momentum before shooting back up with all of his strength, smashing the back of his skull against the attacker's nose. He heard something crack as the arms around him loosened, allowing to slip from the man's grasp.

Sidestepping the second attacker's blow, he quickly leapt forward and slammed the arrow he still held into the man's back.

With the two soon immobilized, he returned hastily to Nyssa. She seemed unconscious, but as he pressed his fingers beneath her nostrils, he was glad to know that she was still breathing, still alive.

It was then he felt something stinging him from behind, then another, and another. He fell forward with a sickening lurch at the realization of what they were. He started to struggle, to try and pull the arrows out from his back. They started to feel heavier, his vision quickly blurring as he fell onto the wooden floors below, his hands grasping at the discarded herbs, trying to fight against the toxins that were overwhelming his body.

It was a fight that he quickly lost.

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Heelia watched the event ravel from a tiny peephole inside of the cupboard she used to store herbs. The sharp leaves were painfully prodding against her, but she kept quiet despite the discomfort, remaining inside of her hiding place, watching as half a dozen men stormed the premises. She recognized the one that stood silently by the side, everyone in the village did.

The Demon's head, their leader, Ra's al Ghul.

She did nothing as the men that came along with him approached the two unconscious forms, picking them up as they quickly dragged the two out into the snow.

She stayed inside for a long time afterwards.

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Oliver regained consciousness not too long after. While the poison was designed to knock their victims out for hours, the ones he received were only coated with small doses. They bounded his hands with rope, tightly wound and inescapable. A darkened hood was thrown over his head, not to hide their location but to disorientate him as they dragged him along.

Snow soon gave way to stairs, to smoother floors before they came to an eventual still. They forced him down onto his knees. From their warmer surroundings, he could tell that they were no longer out in the open. For a moment, he thought that they were about to execute him, but by weighing and judging their actions, their theatrics and from knocking him out with poisoned arrows instead of simply killing him with their swords, he knew that they had something else in mind.

It kept him alive, at least for now.

When the hood was eventually torn away from his face, the first person he saw was Ra's al Ghul, staring down dispassionately at him. They were inside a chamber of some sort, with stone walls and high ceilings. Windows stood to their side while candles illuminated their surroundings. He believed that they were moved into the inner castles. Four sentries stood to his side, two of which held him down and another two behind him, weapons no doubt at the ready.

Oliver could feel the mounting pressure being released as the two behind him took a step back. When Ra's al Ghul sent them another nod, they filed out quietly, their footsteps barely a whisper in the night.

"Oliver Queen," the man spoke when they were finally alone, his voice low, "you live."

His eyes darted to the right, focusing onto the foreign part of his arm, "though with a part of you lesser than before."

"I have granted you death," Ra's spoke without emotion, his face impassive, "but you wanted more."

"The truth is," his blade was drawn, the cold steel quickly pressing against his prisoner's neck, "everything and everyone must come to an end. For you, and even for me."

Blood was drawn, but Oliver remained stoic even as a trail of red ran down his neck.

Oliver looked towards the one that held his life in his palm, his eyes flaring with intensity, clashing brilliantly against the dull contrast of Ra's, "kill me."

"But spare Nyssa. She was not a part of this, I forced her into my plans. You do not have to-"

He did not manage to finish his sentence as Ra's suddenly turned his blade, slamming its dulled end against the side of Oliver's skull, sending him sprawling onto the stone tiles below. He grunted at the blow, a burning throb by the side of his head, his vision rapidly blurring from the strength of the man's swing.

"I am talking to you with respect," there was the sound of metal as Ra's returned his blade into its scabbard, "but do not think me a fool."

Oliver could hear the sounds of fluttering robes as Ra's turned away, as the League's guards returned. In his incapacitated state, there was little he could do but allow them to roughly hoist him up to his feet. This time without a hood, as they dragged him back down where they came from, but turning towards a lower level instead of exiting the castle.

He tried to note his surroundings, the path that they took, little things that might prove useful were he to survive the night or a chance of escape presented itself. The men were more than a little rough as they shoved him down the dimly lit level, especially the two whom he recognized as the ones he took out during the fight in Heelia's shop.

Coming to the ends of what he assumed was the castle's dungeon, they threw him into the furthest cell, a small space without comfort. It was empty in its entirety, without windows nor anything else of use, an empty barren cell, his only company the layers of dust and dried blood caking its walls.

As the guards left him, Oliver started to study his surroundings, but was quick to the conclusion of an impossible escape. Behind him were walls made out of hardened rock, in front of him, while an ancient castle's cell, the hinges and deadbolts were new and fashioned entirely of modern steel.

Finding himself a comfortable spot by the corner of his cell, he leaned against the walls and allowed himself to rest. He was worried about his companions, of what they were going to do to Nyssa, and if Heelia managed to escape before the attack. He closed his eyes and tried to push the concerning thoughts to the back of his mind. Worrying will not do either one of them good, he needed to rest, to regain strength.

He will find a way out, it was only a matter of time.

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The cold water immediately brought him back into consciousness, coughing and heaving as he expelled the icy liquid inside of his lungs. He buckled against his restraints, but they were too tightly wound around him. The few that stood beside him gave no reprieve, forcefully holding him downwards, granting him no chance of escape. He was shivering, his teeth painfully clattering as his hands shook uncontrollably in their binds.

Water trailed down his heaving form, his shirt fully soaked the moment they started. There was a dull throb by his side, but they have mostly ignored his more severe wounds. The first time they did, he quickly lost consciousness from the pain and his body's immediate reaction. They changed their tactics since then, they wanted him to be awake, to see and to feel the overwhelming pain.

The towel was quickly wrapped around his face once more. He tried to twist himself away, but strong fingers clasped onto the sides of his skull, holding him still as another dose of water splashed against the towel. The purpose of the fabric was to control the intended amount of ingested water, to suffocate the victim and to create the sensation of drowning, yet preventing the subject from actually swallowing the full amount, keeping them alive, conscious and in much pain.

Waterboarding was one of the most common forms of torture, both effective and brutal. He trained against it during his attempts to stronger himself against various methods of pain, to prevent himself from leaking information were he to be captured and interrogated. But as much as he trained, there were some things one can never truly be prepared for.

When they eventually released him hours later, Oliver crumpled downwards onto the ground, desperately heaving for oxygen. He tried to fight against his dimming vision, trying to use all of his remaining strength to inhale as much precious air as he could.

He reached for the space in front of him, only to clasp onto the steel tips of a boot. Looking up to its owner, he saw Ra's al Ghul looking down at him, as dispassionately as ever. "You held out much longer than I thought you would." He shrugged away Oliver's feeble grasp, "a full week, and we're not any closer, any further into breaking you."

"Perhaps we should try another method." He kneeled downwards, "there are certain things you seemed to value more than your own life, things that you would protect by selfishly absorbing all of the granted pain."

"What do you hold above yourself?" Ra's hand dug into Oliver's scalp, forcing the injured man to look towards him, eyes that were unable to hide who they cared for, "your friends? The ones you bring along your foolish quest? Your family?"

"Your sister? Who was clearly tainted by one of our own?"

"What would you do…?" Ra's slowly asked, his tone almost curious, "if I were to take such things away from you."

At that very moment, Oliver's eyes flared with a ferocity unlike any Ra's had seen. He pushed himself off the floor in a single leap, his uninjured arm reaching towards the surprised guard behind him. The man was not able to react in time as Oliver drew his blade from its scabbard.

The guard's eyes widened in shock, but he was not the intended target.

The blade sliced across the air in the direction of Ra's with renewed vigor, yet seconds before it struck the man, Ra's raised a single arm. He caught the swing of Oliver's blade with his palm, his expression never-changing even as blood trailed down his wrist from the impact.

As he pushed the blade aside, the bottom of Ra's palm shot towards Oliver's neck, snapping him backwards as he fell, the blade lost in his collapse. It clattered harmless onto the ground beside them. Ra's reached for the unattended blade, its steel tip dragging across Oliver's chest, drawing a line of red.

"A week ago, when you knelt before me and asked for your death, I rejected your offer." The blade was lifted into the air with deadly intent. "But now," as he said those words, Ra's swung the blade towards Oliver, but diverted towards its intended target in the last possible second. The steel sword swung to the man's left, slicing across the throat of the guard it once belonged to, covering them both with a shower of his blood. An action no doubt a punishment for his carelessness.

"Now," Ra's said once more, "I am more so confident in my decision."

"I do not want to kill you, Oliver."

"I have seen your strength, your potential for greatness. I do not require your death, but you in all its entirety."

"I want you to take my place, to become the next Ra's al Ghul."

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	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In canon, Ra's al Ghul is named the Demon's head because his organization (League of Assassin) is known as the Demon. In my story, the title of "Demon" is given to whoever that becomes the next Ra's al Ghul (along with "Demon's head" for whoever that becomes in charge of the organization". Due to the fact that "(relationship) to the Demon", sounds a lot better than, "(relationship) to the Demon's head." You'll get what I mean at the end of the chapter.

The following day was the first time they've allowed him out of the dungeon's depths since his capture the week before, albeit under the presence and supervision of half a dozen armed guards. Since Ra's proclamation of having Oliver take his place as the Demon's head, they have mostly left him to his own dwellings. Being thrown back into his cell shortly after being offered Ra's mantle, it gave Oliver plenty of time to heal and to think. It gave him a chance to lay out all of his options bare, to pull them apart at every seam. Every decision, each affecting consequences, piece by piece.

He knew it wasn't as simple as accepting the position, there were things to be done, decisions to be made. But until then, he appreciated the lack of disturbance. While the silence was otherwise overwhelming, the lack of physical torture was something of an upside. Other than the two bland meals delivered to his cell each day, he was entirely cut off from human contact. The howling winds that accompanied him the last few weeks were completely cut off by the building's stone walls. It felt serene, yet threatening at the same time.

He was mostly left with his conflicting thoughts. However, there was one thing he knew beyond absolute certainty, that Ra's al Ghul still had plenty up his sleeves. There was no other reason for the Demon's head to have kept him alive for so long, no other reason than to still require something else of him. Oliver pressed his knuckles against his temples, squeezing his eyes shut as he pushed against his skull, trying to alleviate the pressure of the situation he was in.

It was as though there were two completely different sides colliding inside of his head with intense ferocity, one his weakness, the other, strength. He tried to conserve his energy, to hunger for every bit of sleep he could get, but sleep did not come easy that night.

They entered his cell the next day, meeting little resistance as they dragged him out of the lower levels, in the direction of the chambers he remembered mapping inside of his head. They forced him to kneel by the center of the room, while Ra's attention was clearly elsewhere, barely acknowledging his presence.

Dozens of candles were placed ceremoniously across the room, converging upon a stone enclosure of misty water. Dozens of symbols were etched into the rocks' surface, drawn like images of power, of strength to be worshiped.

There was little Oliver could do but watch as Ra's dipped his fingers into the swirling mass of green, the liquid coursing through his returning fingertips before his attention diverted to the kneeling man behind.

"What is your answer?" The towering figure asked with emotionless features that masked his innermost thoughts. His voice was soft, yet not something to be mistaken for weakness.

An answer was demanded.

Tensed seconds passed before he spoke, "when you said the words, 'the next Ra's al Ghul,' I assumed that the former is merely a title, a position. A name, passed down from each leader to the next, to continue the illusion of an immortal demon that could defy the passing of time, of even death itself."

"You want me to become your successor, to replace you. To become the Demon, the next Ra's al Ghul." Oliver spoke with firm resolution in his voice, "if so, I have conditions."

A smile started to cross Ra's lips, but he remained impassive, quiet. The flick of his wrist an indication for Oliver to continue.

"First, you will not cause harm to the ones I've associated myself with. Not just the members of my family, but the friends and the acquaintances I have back in Starling City. I need your word that they will be left alone, that you will not take a single step into my City."

"Secondly," he continued, not faltering in his demands, "transparency. I need to know everything I am doing, the causes, the requirements. I will not become a blind figurehead for your organization." They both knew of his particular set of skills, and with being initiated into a society of assassins, it was quite obvious of the things that he would be required to perform, the person that they needed him to become.

Yet of the things he learned of the League, from his research and the information he gathered, along with its history from both Nyssa and Sara, he came upon the realization that things weren't exactly black and white. The league wasn't as simple as a terrorist organization, or a group dedicated to chaos or destruction.

As much as he found, every single one of their targets were guilty of something else, political leaders, African warlords, corrupt government agents. The assassinated targets were not saints, but neither were they exactly innocent. The League was not just a mercenary group for hire. They had their own set of rules, their own beliefs.

The world would be better off without the league, but it just wasn't as simple as that.

"And lastly," he caught the man's gaze, "I want to see Nyssa."

Initially, her well-being was not part of his concerns, he thought that she would be fine, that Ra's would do little to harm his own daughter. But as the days dragged on, his suspicion soon grew into worry, of the things that someone like Ra's would inflict upon a person that betrayed him, even if she's a part of his own flesh and blood. He also knew that were she given a chance, she would have tried to communicate with him, slipping past the guards unnoticed would be an easy task for someone like her.

Ra's al Ghul held his gaze, a fire burning behind his own, the first crack in his seemingly unfazed exterior. "You have my word, Oliver Queen."

For a moment, Oliver thought that the man would strike him down where he stood, but when Ra's agreed to his terms instead, he was visibly surprised, but he tried keeping it mostly to himself. Being motioned to stand, he got up onto his feet, the guards that accompanied him instantly reappeared by his side.

"Follow me." His heavy robes swung outwards as Ra's turned towards the opposite direction, his footsteps echoing as he headed towards the other exit. Oliver followed suit, his hands no longer chained as they once were, but the men that accompanied him stopped any ideas of defiance. The League's castle felt like a maze, of the dozens of turns and stairs that they took, each step closer towards the core of the building itself. Before long, they stood before a gigantic pair of wooden doors, its darkened interior revealed as they headed into the suffocating blackness.

Each step resonated audibly across the murky halls, he was visibly aware of the others' presence, a looming darkness that accompanied his movements. An orange light greeted the ends of their journey, a portion of the gigantic room lit by the natural flames of a hung torch. As they headed towards its source, Oliver tasted the familiar scent of blood in the air.

He felt a chilling shiver across his spine.

As they turned the final corner, the exposed scene made him take a forceful step forward, only to be quelled in his actions by the two guards that drew their weapons in response. His fingertips dug into his palm as he remained silent, his knuckles quickly white.

Nyssa stood in the center of the room, illuminated by the two torches wielded into walls by her side. It was not a natural pose, but instead, the woman was hung from the ceiling by her arms, chained outwards to each of her sides. Not only did they restrict her movements, but they kept her from crumpling onto the ground, forced to continuously stand from the day they chained her. Blood, mostly dried, stained the side of her arms where the metal bit into her skin, along with the dozens of reddened lashes that were no doubt the results of a harsh whip. She faced downwards, her hair obscuring most of her features, her body swirling lightly like a tired ballerina with each weakened breath that she took.

"I sense your anger." Ra's spoke, "it is misplaced."

"How can you do this to your own daughter?" Oliver turned towards him, his voice seething with rage. Were the guards to be absent from his side, he would have attacked the man without hesitation.

"You think this is mere punishment." Ra's said, "disciplining a disobedient child. You are wrong."

"We call this, ' _gaal_ ', redemption. It is a path only she can take. To survive, would be to rid of all your sins, to be forgiven for all of your past mistakes."

"' _Nihp`al,_ ' to be redeemed."

"Put me up there instead," Oliver's voice was raised, "let her go, let me take her place."

"Why?" Ra's asked, "why are you so intent on taking on the pain of another, especially one unrelated to you."

"Because we no longer are." Oliver pointed towards the one that saved his life, "have you thought about why she defied you? The reasons for her betrayal? Something that transcends beyond her loyalty?"

"It is love," He spoke adamantly, without a trace of detectable deception, "our time spent together in both Starling and in Nanda Parbat, we became something more. We are betrothed, if I am to become the Demon, then your daughter, she will become my woman."

"Wife of the Demon."

He could only pray for a convincing performance, as absurd of a lie as it was.

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	8. Chapter 8

She was lighter than he thought, like a young child, small and weak in his arms. It was the first time he caught a glance of her in such a weakened and fragile state, not the usual headstrong and determined person that she was, but someone frail and delicate. He carried her bridal style, the irony of it not lost to him as he thought of the lie given to Ra's al Ghul. The whole exchange was quite startling, it was unexpected, a risky play that ended up unanticipatedly in his favor. For a moment, he thought he would have been strung up next to Nyssa, or perhaps even worse.

Yet instead, there was something else. When Ra's eyes furrowed into him, it was almost as though noticing him for the first time. He knew it wasn't approval, it wasn't some misguided parental instinct. Ra's choose to spare them both, not because of the assumed relationship with his daughter, but because the man had something else in mind. Something even Oliver was afraid of.

She was released quickly, with him catching her before she could fully crumple onto the ground. It was the first time he had seen her in two week, she looked almost nothing like the person he spent an entire month with. Her eyelids fluttered at his touch, floating between consciousnesses as her parched lips reacted slightly at his presence. She was a lot thinner than he remembered, the effects of their medieval torture apparent.

When he picked her up, Ra's was already gone, along with the guards that accompanied them both. Instead, a single old lady stood before him, dressed in dark flowing robes, a single candle in hand. She motioned after him to follow her, indicating that she would lead him to their quarters. With no other choice but to do as he was told, he complied.

Holding her near his chest, he could hear, could feel her weakened breathing. In a way, it comforted him, reassured him that she was still alive despite her current state. The castle was eerily quiet as they continued their journey, only the occasional howl of wind accompanied the shuffling of the old lady's shoes. Before long, they arrived at a pair of shut wooden doors, with incarnations of what he assumed was their religion carved onto their front panels.

They stopped for a minute, as the old lady took out a bundle of keys, slowly going through each and every before seemingly finding the one she sought. A huge metallic piece, one that quickly sunk into the door's lock, a gentle click that betrayed its daunting features. Removing the key, the old lady took a step back before pushing the doors open, allowing the three of them to enter.

Walking into the darkened room, he remained vigilant of his surroundings, waiting near the exit, his training kicking into gear, warning him of the possibilities of an incoming trap. Fortunately for him, his instincts were wrong this time, as the old lady walked over to the side of the room and positioned the candle that she held along to the unlit torches that hung by the side. The flames flickered for a mere second, as though breathing its last breath before a fiery re-emergence, breathing renewed life onto the torches long passed. She repeated the same for the other few that hung around the room, warmly illuminating the quarters given to them both.

It was surprisingly… modest. In fact, it was more than a little luxurious. While lacking of any modern features, just like how one would find in a medieval castle such as this, it was decorated as though fitted for a 13th century noble. Magnificently woven tapestry hung from its walls, images of landscapes and of oceans, of vibrant colors and tones. Wooden cabinets and tables sat at a corner, with a generously sized bed, underneath an intricately sewn canopy ceiling. He moved towards the center and placed her down onto the silken sheets, watching as she sank into the plush cushions.

As he got back up, the doors closed behind him, but not in a menacing slam. A gentle exit, as with it the the old lady announced her departure, the keys to their quarters left on the table, next to a lively candle. Looking around, he decided to quickly access their surroundings. There were no windows, no exits other than the front entrance, however, there were two other accessible locations. One which he assumed was the bathroom from its many pipes and the wooden tub that sat in its middle. The other, which he discovered when he pulled the heavy curtains to the side, was a path out to the balcony. But being able to hear the sounds of outside weather from where he stood, he decided not to check it out for now.

Heading towards the desk, he saw that it was filled with certain pieces of writing instruments, from pieces of parchment to quills and ink. Opening the cupboards, he saw pieces of cloths, from towels to what seemed like clothing and robes. Taking a few with him, he placed them beside the resting female before heading into the bathroom. He approached the few protruding pipes, studying them before noticing the tiny knob at the bottom that would allow water to flow. Gathering the liquid in a small bowl that he found, he returned to Nyssa, setting it down beside her.

He started slow, with a gentle yet firm touch. The towel was dipped into the water, removed and twisted, allowing stray droplets to return where they came. With a light touch, he brushed away the stray strands of hair that clumped onto her face, curling them behind her ears before pressing the towel onto her cheeks. He allowed the soaked towel to rest, before brushing them upwards, across her forehead, along the ridges of her nose, her ears, underneath her neck. He wiped at the mixture of grime, of blood and sweat, making sure as to not apply any unnecessary pressure near her visible wounds.

When the bowl of water soon turned grey from his constant usage, he headed back into the bathroom and refilled another. When he returned, the old lady from before was standing by the side of the room, a package of some kind in one hand. She placed it down onto the desk, showing him a mixture of herbs and the pestle and mortar that she brought along with her.

"What… What am I supposed to do with these?" He asked. While he recognized some of the objects, most were lost to him, herbs that weren't readily found and used in the civilized world.

The old lady did not speak, but instead pointed to the unconscious female behind him, then to the herbs that were brought along. She motioned towards him, pointing towards those he assumed she wanted him to mix, some to be applied, others to be drank. The old lady indicated only with her arms, never once opening her mouth to speak. When she was done, she left once more, this time for the rest of the night.

As soon as the old lady left, Oliver got straight to work. Taking the mortar, which was a smooth piece of rock fashioned into the shape of a bowl, he added in the pieces of herbs before picking up the pestle, the other component which he then used to grind all of them together. He ended up with a purplish paste that smelled of vanilla, which he set aside.

Turning back towards Nyssa, his arms reached beneath her, propping her up into a sitting position, her back facing him while her head slumped forward, hidden away from sight. Her back was where the severity of her injuries were, the dozens of reddened lines that ran crimson down her spine. But first, he had to get her cloak out of the way.

Slowly, he grabbed onto the hems of her tattered clothing, slowly maneuvering her in such a way he could slip her out of it without too much discomfort. She wasn't wearing anything else underneath, her naked flesh heated to the touch, a layer of perspiration coating her. Applying the paste onto his uninjured arm, he softly pressed the cooling mixture onto her prominent scars, feeling her body slightly responding to his touch.

His other arm gripped onto her shoulders, his metallic fingers holding her still as he applied the rest of the paste, gently so across every single lash. He could feel her shivering at his touch, her body trembling beneath each uncomfortable stroke. When he eventually exhausted all of the paste, he noticed droplets of red upon the bedsheets beneath them. She was bleeding again.

Wetting the towel once more, he pressed it against her shoulder blades, softly sliding it down her front, towards the source of the bleeding. He brushed it against the visible gash near her chest, feeling her back arching against his touch, her breasts pushing into his palm.

She whimpered softly, yet remained unconscious, her body's movement an instinct, a reflex to his touch. Her voice stirred something within him, a shiver that resonated throughout his core, threatening him with a primal urge that sought to engulf him whole. He had been without proper human contact for far too long… but he knew this wasn't the place, wasn't the time. He swallowed, then took a deep breath before continuing.

Flipping her down onto her front as to not smudge the herbs on her back, he covered her lower body with the provided blankets before falling to her side in exhaustion, from both the events of the day and with all that have happened. Sitting on the floor, he leaned against the side of the bed, the back of his head inches away from where she laid. It wasn't long before Oliver too, drifted off into an uneasy rest.

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She awoke to the warmth of a flickering candle, her blurred vision slowly focusing onto the dancing flame on the table beside her. She was consciously aware of not just a comfortable bed beneath her, but of her own exposed form. As her toes glided across the silken cushions, she slipped her hands underneath the blankets that were draped around her, curling them into a coat of sorts that wrapped around her shoulders. It hid her bare flesh, an increased sense of security as she sought to better understand her surroundings.

Every single part of her still hurt, searing lines of pain that ran downwards in several parts of her back, reminding her fully well of the punishment she had endured. But they did not hurt as much as she imagined, they were almost like a fleetingly dull sensation, like the remnants of a storm long passed. Pressing her fingertips softly against her wounds, she felt something coating the lacerations, almost an ointment of sorts. Leaning backwards, she allowed an overwhelming surge of dizziness to pass before her eyes darted across the room, taking in the area around her.

It did not take her long to realize that she was still within the castle's vicinity, but in another room, one that was beautifully furnished, exquisitely so. She recognized it as one of the guest rooms, given only to visiting members of the highest importance. It confused her as to why she was here, along with the things that have happened since she stepped into her father's compulsory ritual. Closing her eyes for a moment, she felt distorted memories emerging like uncontrolled currents, crashing heavily into her skull as though a rough ocean's wave.

She remembered being carried, flickers and images of his gentle touch, a warm embrace.

She immediately reddened at the thought, confused at her own reaction. That was when she noticed him, Oliver Queen, his back leaning against the side of the bed. He seemed to be silently asleep, his chest slowly rising and falling with each breath that he took. She remembered looking up at him, feeling the thump of his heart as he held her to his chest. He was the one that carried her, but she could not remember the reason why.

An intruding thought probed at the edge of her consciousness, one that could easily explain both his presence and the reasons for her apparent nakedness. She flushed even redder at that image.

Did something happen between them both? She pressed her knuckles into her skull, she couldn't remember. She looked towards him, he seemed so calm, so peaceful, as though without the slightest care about the world. But she knew otherwise, he was a troubled man that carried the weight of everything else on his back. Why did she at that moment, wanted so much to help relieve him of that?

She reached out towards him, her fingertips trembling as she neared the base of his skull, but seconds before contact, she felt him stir, almost like he could sense her nearing presence. She immediately pulled herself back, unsure of what she was trying to accomplish.

Turning back towards herself, Nyssa could feel a heated warmth across her chest, almost like a persistent memory that refused to fade. Unsure of what she was feeling, she pressed a palm against the scarring across her chest, and as she did, her mind was casted back to the night before, flooding her with images of her naked form leaning back against his chest, his palm a heated touch across her breast. It sent waves of heated pleasure that ran up her thighs, an instinctively curl of her toes, the digging of her fingertips into the cushions beneath.

She was not supposed to feel this way, she was Nyssa al Ghul, the proud Heir to the Demon. She was not a common whore, she was not attracted to that man.

Yet… She looked towards him once more, only for her gaze to abruptly meet his. Oliver Queen looked in her direction with worried eyes, his lips quivering for a moment as though searching for the correct words to say.

"Are you okay?" He eventually asked.

"I'm… I will be." Taking a moment to still her erratic heart, she whispered in response, her voice soft, almost demure. "Were you the one that applied the herbs?"

"Yes," he nodded, "did it help? Do you need more? I think there's still-"

He sounded somewhat frantic, the way he worried about her was an experience she had never felt before. Growing up, she was taught to be strong on her own, that seeking help was nothing but a weakness that would one day ultimately be her downfall. Yet, as weird as it was seeing him this way, she liked it for some reason or another.

"It's fine," she interrupted him, "it helps with the recovery. Lessens the pain. We do not usually use such herbs, instead, we welcome the suffering of our wounds. It teaches us humility, allows us the lesson of never making the same mistakes ever again."

"In my world, we usually just give them a slap on the wrist." He chuckled softly, still amazed at how vastly different their societies worked, how crazy hers was, "sometimes lunch detention."

She laughed, only to double over as pain tore through her wounds. "I'm… okay," she hissed between coughs, "I just need a moment."

Leaving her side, he quickly returned with a cup of water, which she hastily gulped down. Along with her injuries, she was famished and dehydrated. Following her eyes towards the basket of bread left on the table before their arrival, he went and retrieved them before she could bring herself to ask.

Placing the basket back down beside her, he watched as she reached for one, only to grimace in pain, unable to continue. Grabbing the loaf of bread instead, he tore a small piece off before bringing it close to her lips, his eyes gently searching hers for permission, ready to back down were she to ever say no. When she did not reject his offer, he fed the first piece of bread to her, followed by another, then another. Before long, the basket was emptied, not even crumbs remained.

"You got something on your…" he said as he reached towards her, his thumb softly brushing against the underside of her lips, pushing away a stray crumb of bread. Nyssa held still for a moment, before jerking backwards, her face turned in the opposite direction. "I could have done it myself," she complained, her voice slightly higher than usual.

Turning back towards him, her eyes flashed wildly, a reddened tint prominent across her cheeks, "I…."

"We…" She mumbled, unable to get the sentences out, "did we…?" She hated that feeling, the warm flush that expanded from her chest, from her ears all the way to her toes. It made her feel weak, like a nervous trembling school girl.

"Did we…?" He repeated her question, genuinely confused at what she was asking.

"Did we do anything?" She blurted out as she pulled the blankets even tighter around herself.

For a moment, he stared blankly at her, and in the next, Oliver realized what she was inferring and burst out in laughter, in the presence of a rapidly reddening Nyssa.

"I am not joking!"

"Don't worry, no," he managed to say when he eventually regained his composure. "We didn't do anything."

"But if that's your reaction to this, then you're not going to like what I'm about to tell you. Not one bit." He took a deep breath before continuing, "you see, in order to save both our lives, I had to tell your father something. A lie which I think he fully believed."

"I might have kind of told your father..." he said sheepishly, "that we were engaged."

For the first time in her life, Nyssa was not prepared for the outcome. She was not trained, her instincts were not honed for a moment such as this. She was entirely unprepared, and as her jaw fell, she genuinely had no idea how to respond.

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	9. Chapter 9

"You know, we're not actually engaged." He was a little surprised by her reaction, but not negatively so. It was quite enlightening to see this other side of Nyssa, an unprotected and vulnerable angle. She looked beautiful by the candle's lightning, the light tint of her cheeks accentuated the glow of her skin. He knew it wasn't shyness, it wasn't the usual blush of an embarrassed female. He just caught her off guard, not only by saving her, but to help wash her, to clean her wounds. She wasn't used to feeling another's touch.

"I know," she snapped quickly back, but without any traces of irritation nor anger in her voice.

"We just have to pretend to be, at least in front of all of them." He chuckled, "I will take lying to them over being tortured any day."

"How did my father… respond?" She asked softly.

"He didn't," Oliver muttered, "he did not say a single word to me after I told him of relationship. But he released you, and he allowed us to both live."

"If there is something else on his mind, we can deal with it later. What matters is that we're both alive as of now." He continued, "we can figure things out later, but more importantly, we have to set our stories straight."

"What do you mean?" She questioned.

"If we have to lie, we have to be consistent in everything we say or do. You can't say three weeks when I say three months, and I can't say two years when you say twenty. In order for the lie to sustain, we have to be constant." He thought for a moment, "things like… how did we meet. The things that we did, the way our relationship progressed. Where we stayed in the weeks since you found me. How… we got engaged."

She remained quiet as she contemplated the things he said, "I agree."

"Our tale must remain as close to the truth as possible, it must not be a lie spun widely from control. It should be interwoven between truths, to be able to hold up to intense scrutiny. It helps to reduce the possibility of outside interference."

He turned away when he saw her get up from the bed, her footsteps soft on the carpets below as she headed across the room. He could hear the blanket falling softly to the floor, followed by the sound of rustling cloth, his eyes remained diverted.

Turning back when he could hear her returning, he noticed that she changed into the robes that were packed into the drawers, no doubt by the old lady from the night before. He was about to speak when she asked, "why did you turn away?"

"I…" His mouth remained in mid-sentence for a moment, "what do you mean?"

"When I was changing, why did you turn away when I revealed myself?"

"I thought…" He stumbled, unable to get an answer out.

"We are supposed to be engaged, are we not?" She asked, "shouldn't we start by acting like we are?"

"I'm... Sorry?" He apologized, not knowing what else to say, "I thought it might offend you. When you woke up, it seemed as though you-"

"That was… a moment of weakness." She looked away, clearly embarrassed by the way that she acted, "I was injured and suffering from malnutrition, I wasn't my… usual self."

It brought a small smile to his lips, her embarrassment was clear, but he quickly hid it before she noticed, "I understand."

"So what do you think we should say?" He moved to her, as though wanting to sit on the bed beside her, but changing his mind as the last moment. Taking a seat by the wooden chair next to the bed instead, he asked, "our timeline, our engagement."

"Most should remain unchanged, but we should add additional details from when I was in Starling." She looked at him, before redirecting the question back towards him, "but for the engagement, shouldn't the man be the one who proposed?"

Oliver could have sworn he saw the slightest of a smile accompanying her question, "you're right."

"A year ago," he started, "that's when it should begin. When you first helped me with Slade's Mirakuru army. Our relationship started then. We were fighting his army when you fell to one of his men, he was about to kill you when I stepped in and-"

"No," she interrupted almost immediately. "Nyssal al Ghul does not lose in fights."

"It's… It's just a lie."

"It doesn't matter."

"Okay." He leaned back, deep in thought. "How about… through Sara."

She did not reply, so he took it as a sign to continue, "we were both mourning her death, something in common that drew us both together. We found comfort in the other's company, that we both had such a different history with her."

"I like that." She whispered, it was clear that Sara still remained an important part of her, of both of them.

"Each time you came down to find her murderer, I joined you. We did not talk much, but we grew closer in the other's presence time, the nights spent searching for clues, hunting down suspects." What he said was true so far, it was part of their history, the lie not yet started.

"As we hunted together, I fell in love with your… persistence. Your unwillingness to give up." She spoke softly, almost as though she was confessing to him, the lies fading away, "I was attracted to your eyes at first, strong and firm. You hold the world on your shoulders. Yet I could see through the façade, the anger, the fear. The rawness of it, I-"

She paused, like she needed a moment to reaffirm herself of what it was, "the lie. I'm sorry, I got too carried away."

"It's okay," he said, his voice softer as he leaned slightly forward as she did, the two of them growing closer as the undying candle flickered between them both, "it is always better to be prepared than not."

"It started when we caught Malcolm Merlyn as the killer." He said, finally diverting from the truth, "you stayed for two weeks, and in that time, we fell in love."

"I brought you to the Arrow Cave after dinner one night, Diggle was with his family, Felicity was at the office. We were alone, and I asked you to be with me forever."

"And I said yes." She quietly replied.

"It was nothing fancy," he continued, "no big announcement, no extravagant proposal. I gave you a simple ring, one fashioned from the wood of my first bow, the one I kept on display in the cave. And you said yes."

"It is also why I saved you," she added in, completing the lie, "when my father pushed you off the cliff, I couldn't allow you to die, so I headed in after nightfall, hoping to find you and I did."

"And everything else falls into place," he finished.

The two of them were quiet for a very long time.

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A large shard of glass sat in their bathroom, one that was fashioned into a mirror of sorts. Oliver stood in front of it, studying his own reflection. Looking like shit was an understatement. Unlike the time he spent on the Island, he did not allow his hair to grow, it served not purpose other than to irritate him. During his time spent in the hut, he would use the knife that Nyssa bought along, grooming himself to the best of his ability every few days or so. He left it short, but there was only so much one could do with a blade of such caliber.

He ran his fingers through the stubble that grown since his last shave, noticing how sunken his face seemed. A mixture of both exhaustion and from the lack of proper nutrition since his fight with Ra's a month ago. There were a few medieval looking grooming utensils provided, from crudely fashioned razors to what seemed like shaving cream.

He picked the cream up, taking a whiff of it before mixing it between his palms, a moderate amount applied to the underside of his chin, then to the sides, and around his mouth. It was weird, to feel the warmth of one hand along with the cool steel of the other. Unclenching his right arm, he slowly reached for the razor, watching as his fingers uncoiled and gripped gingerly onto its miniature handle. In the weeks that he had trained, he gotten somewhat used to the unnatural attachment, he was able to grab onto things, from door knobs to even handling a sword.

Smaller objects however, there was still a certain level difficulty towards it. He brought it up to his cheeks, slowly pressing it against the side of his neck. Pushing it down, he felt the blade slicing cleanly through the cream, a layer of hair along with it. He tried to repeat the action, but on the second repetition, he felt the razor slipping from his grip, and as he tightened his hold, he felt the blade piercing through flesh. He grunted, cursing as the razor clattered noisily onto the floor below, a trail of blood down his neck.

Nyssa was immediately by his side, bursting into the bathroom, her eyes widened in alarm. She looked at him cautiously, for a moment wondering if they were under attack. Slowly, her eyes traveled downwards, to the blood, to the bladed tool that laid abandoned by the side. They softened understandingly, as she walked over to him and picked the razor up.

She reached out towards him, her fingers gently brushing across the underside of his chin. Her eyes found his as she pinched onto his flesh, she titled his head to the side, washing away the reddened cream before applying another layer for him. The blade then dipped into the water, then a quick swish as it slid across skin, a skillful cut. It returned underneath water almost immediately, washing away the residue before returning to his neck, quick but controlled scraps that quickly removed his stubble in a matter of minutes.

She stood aside as he washed himself, she felt he looked better this way, clean, masculine, powerful.

The old lady brought them dinner later on, freshly cooked chicken with a variety of steaming vegetables and herbs, fresh from the mountain itself. They feasted hungrily, neither of them remembering the last time they had such a wondrous meal.

She took a shower after they were done, returning to his side with nothing but a headful of dripping wet hair and a towel around herself. "My bandages are dirty, I had to remove them."

She sat at the edge of the bed, allowing him to find a spot behind her. Leaning forward, she allowed the towel to fall, her front covered only by her own arms.

Picking the leftover herbs from the night before, he started to grind them, watching them turn into the same familiar paste. Moving behind her, he gently scooped her hair to her front, feeling her tense at the sudden contact.

"Tell me if it hurts, you were unconscious the previous time."

He dipped his fingers into the paste, then slowly pressing them against the nearest scar, letting it soak, waiting for her reaction. His movements were slow, deliberate and filled with restraint. Like a painter, purple drove over red, her back soon slick with the ointment, his fingers like a brush, from one point to the next. He glossed over her skin, and before long, they were done.

"Does it hurt?" He asked afterwards. People don't usually heal from such injuries in a day, but those specific herbs seemed to have some sort of incredible healing properties. Even so, her injuries were too severe to have fully healed.

"It is bearable." She replied, "thanks to you."

Reaching for the towel, she hung it only loosely around her front as to not smudge the paste before it dried. Turning towards him, he watched as her hair slid backwards, cascading over her shoulders as she re-positioned herself, revealing her bare arms. She looked down at his, remembering the incident from before, "how is the arm?"

"Not too bad." He replied, showing her his ability to twitch the metallic fingers around. "I'm just not too used to holding precise instruments." He paused for a moment, "and when I get nervous or tensed, I slip up quite easily."

"You will get better at it," she gave him a reassuring smile, her fingers brushing across the metallic limb, a touch he could not feel. She trailed upwards, along his artificial flesh, before coming to a stop at the ends of his shoulder, where flesh remained.

"Does it have any… feeling?" She asked, her hand remaining on his.

"Not exactly," he shrugged, "I can somewhat feel your touch, but that is because of the weight of your hand along my shoulders, I feel it from the other parts of my body. I can move the arm, finger by finger, but I cannot feel."

"It could be useful," she mentioned, thinking of the many possible ways it could be used as an offensive weapon. It was the way she was brought up, using the environment to her advantage. "As a weapon, or as a shield of some kind. Parrying blows."

"Could even be better than flesh, to never feel pain, to never hurt." She continued, studying the intricate designs left by the village's blacksmith.

"Also to never feel," he softly replied, his gaze falling to her arm, which still rested by his side.

"Another's touch."

She released her grip as he spoke, her hands returning to her side. She opened her mouth to speak, but then remained quiet when she realized how close to him she was, her body subconsciously leaning towards him as they spoke. She looked up at him, her eyes inches away from the chin she shaved only just a few hours ago. Her gaze continued upwards, falling onto his own, a pair of vibrant green, both striking and alluring at the same time.

Her face tilted towards his instinctively, her lips trembled in their nearness, until a knock sounded across the room.

They broke apart immediately, Oliver standing back up as she pulled the towel back around herself.

Making sure she was properly dressed before opening the doors, one of Ra's men was waiting outside.

"Ra's al Ghul demands both your presence."

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	10. Chapter 10

The two of them were led down a different path, a portion of the castle Oliver was still unfamiliar with. With Nyssa next to him, they followed the masked figure into darkened corridors, unlit by the torches they have left behind. They descended deeper into the castle, eventually arriving at their destination, a training hall of sorts, adorned with weapons of all kind.

As they entered, Ra's stepped out from within shadows, a sheathed blade in each arm. He tossed the weapon towards Oliver, who caught it with his right arm, the sound of clashing metal resonating throughout the chamber.

Nyssa took a step forward, almost in a sort of protective manner, unsure and apprehensive of her father's intentions.

"A demonstration." Ra's said, his voice was soft, the blade he held leaned gingerly to his side. His pose was undaunting, relaxed, but none in this room knew to underestimate the man, "I am curious as to how you will perform with your new arm."

"Or perhaps," he looked towards Nyssa, an eyebrow raised tauntingly, "Oliver Queen is someone that prefers having his women fight his battles?"

He could feel her growing concern, but Oliver was unable to convince her otherwise. She of all people knew how strong of a swordsman her father was, and not only did he lose a limb from their previous encounter, he did not stand a chance back then either, not even close.

Still, he wasn't going to back down. His fingers brushed across her shoulders, giving her a soft reassuring squeeze before moving towards Ra's, coming to a stop slightly before where the man stood. He drew his blade and held it forward, a prepared stance as he slowly started to circle his combatant. Ra's however, did not budge, his weapon not yet drawn, his pose still as he was before.

Oliver was trying to gauge the older man's movement and range, but he gained neither. He feinted with the blade, but Ra's remained without movement. Feeling his frustration surge into anger, Oliver leaped forward, abandoning accuracy for brute force. Steel clashed against brass, his blade smashing heavily into the side of Ra's scabbard with tremendous force. But it was like sending his fists against the side of a cemented building, the man did not bulge.

Instead, Oliver felt Ra's redirect the momentum of his own swing, using his strength against him, sliding him to the side, causing him to stumble forward. As he did, Oliver saw from the corner of his eyes the retraction of Ra's scabbard, before it whipped across the side of his ribs like a battering ram. It sent him staggering to the side, gasping in pain as his weapon slipped from his metallic grasp.

Oliver pulled himself back up to his feet, he tried lifting his sword, only to realize that he could barely control the movements of his right arm. His artificial fingers grasped at the grip of his weapon, but was unable to find a firm hold. It felt like he was losing control of his own arm.

Picking the blade up with his left hand, he twirled the blade, getting a feel for it before approaching Ra's for the second time. His swings were weaker this time round, slashes that Ra's managed to dodge without much visible effort. After a wide swing, Oliver reeled in his blade, pivoting on his feet as his weapon thrust forward in the direction of Ra's center with a sudden surge of speed. But once again, Ra's merely deflected his attack to the side, this time the back of his palm striking the back of Oliver's skull, flinging his head to the side, like a parent disciplining his disobedient child.

"Disappointing," the Demon's head muttered, "you fight like a blind man, without direction, without control."

Oliver roared in frustration, his blade once again swinging high, but this time it did not follow his usual pattern. Instead, he swung it like a Frisbee, the sword slicing through air towards Ra's. The older man raised his sheath once more, knocking the spiraling blade out of the sky, but the mere distraction was all that Oliver needed. As the blade left his arm, he darted forward, his legs digging into the ground before springing forward, his hand swinging towards Ra's as the man deflected his secondary attack. Ra's reacted to his movements immediately, instinctively driving his head to the right, ahead from Oliver's left arm.

But it was a feint. His body quickly pivoting in the direction of Ra's turn, sending his right arm straight towards where he was headed.

The sound of metal against flesh cracked loudly throughout the chamber.

There was silence for a moment, and in the next, a flash of silver, before an explosion of blood erupted from the front of Oliver's chest. He fell to his knees, but Nyssa was already in front of him, her own blade drawn in a defensive pose.

"Father…"

Ra's al Ghul's eyes flashed with fury, as his own drawn weapon held high, blood dripping of its tip. But as Nyssa spoke, he seemed to have regained his composure, as the wrath dissipated from his eyes, as his weapon slid to his side. Ra's looked down at his own blade, as though surprised by his own drawing of it. Without saying a single word, he took a step back and headed in the opposite direction, leaving the two alone by the center of the room.

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

"It is only a flesh wound," he said afterwards, "but it still hurts like hell."

"I did not teach you to fight like an idiot," there was a tiny smile by the edge of her lips. During the weeks they've spent trapped in the snow, he had asked for her guidance in better handling a blade. It helped tremendously with his recovery, mostly by allowing him to learn using his new arm.

"He was testing you." She took another closer look at his wounds before concluding that they were not of a death-threatening nature, "however, I don't know why."

He nodded, agreeing with her assessment before speaking, "I've not told you this, but your father…"

"He wants me to take his place. To become the next Ra's al Ghul."

She did not reply initially, but he could sense the growing turmoil within her, her eyes hardening into the distance, the hands that held his shirt tightly squeezed.

They were still for a long while, before he asked, "are you… angry?"

"I know that you've spent your entire life training for that moment, that you're the deserved heir to his throne. I just-"

"Anger does not describe what I feel." She whispered, looking away, "there are no bounds to my hatred for that man, he is someone I longed to kill, to feel his blood upon my hands, the death of my own father. Yet learning that he wants another to take my place as heir, I feel a sort of… frustration... disappointment."

She paused for a while, "to loathe all he stands for, yet to feel such emotions for not living up to what he requires of me."

"Yes I am angry," her gaze returned to his, "I should feel anger for what he took from me and granted you."

"But no, Oliver, I am not angry at you."

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

They shared the same bed later that night, he offered to sleep on the floor, but she insisted, they had to keep up appearances. She curled away from him, facing the opposite direction, but she could feel his gaze upon her back, it was uncomfortable, but not entirely unpleasant. When she eventually turned towards him, Oliver Queen was already asleep.

For the longest time she watched, his chest slowly rising and falling like a gentle child, there were times when she noticed sudden movements underneath closed eyelids, but they were gone as soon as they were.

She counted, but eventually lost track of his breathing as she too fell asleep.

Nyssa was still asleep when Oliver rose the next morning. The first thing he noticed was her scent, a mixture of wood and herbs. As he focused his blurry vision, he realized how close she had rolled up against him. They were not in a sort of lover's embrace, instead, she curled up to his side, her head rested against his arms, her hair draped across his chest.

He laid there for a long time before slipping out from beneath her, not wanting to rouse her from her sleep. She slightly stirred as he sat upright onto the bed, but remained asleep, peacefully so. Oliver made his way over to the bathroom, cleaning himself up before studying the gash across his chest. It started slightly above his belly, a straight line that curled up to his right shoulder. It was a scary thought, to register how closely he came to dying the night before. If Ra's had used more strength, a couple of inches deeper, he could have spilt Oliver's organs across the floor.

Pushing that thought aside, he headed to the other end of the room, pushing the curtains aside and opening the closed doors. As he stepped out onto the balcony, he was greeted with a cool breeze alongside a surprisingly magnificent view. From where he stood, he was granted a panoramic view over pastures and hedgerows, melting snow that slowly revealed their underneath green. Beyond them, he could see the gigantic cavern walls, that stretched all the way up into the skies above, meeting at a circular point where sunlight filtered through, signaling the end of night and once more beginning the village's cycle of day.

He breathed in heavily, enjoying the natural air, untouched by outside pollution. He was so caught up with the scenery, he only noticed her arrival when she leaned onto the railing beside him.

"It's beautiful," he commented before looking towards her, "it's hard to believe a place like this exists without actually seeing it."

"Would you like a closer look?" She asked him, before motioning to the village below with the tilt of her head. "They left us the key to our room, I don't think we are to be treated as prisoners."

"It's not like we can escape either." She added in, "another month till winter is over. We might be safe for now, but a lot can happen in one month."

**.**

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**.**

**.**

The two of them slipped into heavier cloaks before leaving their quarters, heading down the spiraling stairs towards the levels below. They passed by a few guards, but none stopped them as they eventually left the main castle behind. They headed towards the village, leaving dying footsteps within melting snow, like sunken imprints on the beach, soon washed away from the rising tide.

As they entered the outskirts of the village, he soon noticed a flurry of activity, from people making their daily rounds to chitchatting villagers and even store peddlers. From the talks he had with Nyssa, he knew of the existence of their functioning society, but it was still a surprising sight to behold. Children dressed in fur clothing ran past him, as older ladies gossiped by the side of their homes, smiles revealing missing teeth.

While all of the buildings in this village were built with stones, no doubt to endure the rapidly changing weather, the one they arrived at, had what he recognized as a huge furnace built to the side. There wasn't a door, the two of them headed inside, Oliver following Nyssa's lead.

They approached the gigantic furnace, partly drawn by its radiating heat. An old man sat to the side, a jug of darkened liquid on hand. Noticing their arrival, the man turned towards them, slowly getting up from his seat. It was only then Oliver realized that the old man towered above them both, with arms that were as huge as the anvils around the store. From the wrinkles across his face and the headful of whitened hair, he seemed no less than eighty, but with the physic of someone at their optimal youth.

His looked down towards Oliver like he was sizing him up, before his eyes focused onto the metallic arm. Glee overcame the man's features, following by a flush of what seemed to be proudness. He moved towards Oliver, scooping him up as though they were best friends and giving him the tightest hug of his life. As a stunned Oliver was released moments later, Nyssa introduced the old man.

"This is Al Hidad, the blacksmith of our village. Also the one who designed and created the arm you're currently using."

The man started to speak in a tongue Oliver did not understand but recognized as Arabic, Nyssa translated for him, "he is asking about your arm."

Lifting his right hand, Oliver clenched and unclenched his palm, much to the older man's amusement, "tell him it's amazing, I cannot thank him enough."

When Nyssa translated it back, the old man shook his head before replying in Arabic.

"He says it's not every day he has the chance to create something like this for someone. That most of the ones who in your condition would have died within the hour. He was surprised by your will to live."

Oliver allowed the blacksmith to inspect his arm afterwards, watching as the old man took measurements and muttered constantly to himself. When they eventually left the store, Nyssa told him that the old man asked for them to visit again soon, that he will have something else prepared for him.

They headed to a building resembling something of a restaurant next, finding two seats by the corner of the store. A young girl approached them, exchanging a few words with Nyssa before heading towards the older lady at the back of the establishment, whom he assumed was the girl's mother and also the cook.

The little girl reminded him of Heelia, whom he immediately asked of.

"She's fine," Nyssa reassured him afterwards, "she sent me a note. It's mostly consisting of the amount we owed her, for the herbs and destroying half of her store, but I assume she's fine too."

They talked about the village for a bit, before a look of seriousness crossed his features, "the blacksmith spoke of my will to live as though it was the one thing that kept me alive. But it wasn't just me." He caught her gaze, his eyes softening, "him, Heelia, you. All of you are a part of what saved me, that allowed me to be here today."

"Away from Starling, I thought I was alone. But I was wrong, I guess I have a family this side of the world too."

The word, "family", meant differently to Nyssa, who only had someone like Ra's in her life. But she knew Oliver wasn't referring to the same. She wondered what family meant to him, but did not have the time to ask.

The little girl returned with two steaming hot bowls of soup, carefully placing each in front of them, making absolutely sure as to not spill even a single drop. "Thukpa," Nyssa said, explaining further when she saw the confused look upon his face, "it's something like a chicken broth, perfect for cold winters."

"Must be a thriving business then," he smiled, "it's winter all year over here."

He did not know whether it's because he missed the taste of such food, but it was one of the most delicious meals he had ever tasted. The noodles were silky, the chicken tender and soft, the broth was piping hot, a mixture of spices that warmed his insides with each mouthful. When they were done, not a single drop of soup was left.

"I want you to continue training me," he asked her afterwards, "to properly wield a blade."

"You've trained longer, and you're definitely better than me at it. With my hand in this state, I don't think I can handle a bow the same way I used to." He looked down at his arm, "I need to get stronger, get better. When Ra's struck me the other night, I lost control of my arm due to how terrified I was in the difference of our skill level. "

"It's something I cannot let happen again."

She nodded, impressed by his unfaltering determination before noticing the tiny flakes of snow that started falling once more, "we should be heading back soon, night is falling."

**.**

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**.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/n: While Nyssa is definitely proficient with a bow in the Arrowverse, it's an ability I've removed from her in my story. It's not a random decision, but for something planned further on. I've also explained slightly below with her thoughts as to why.

The man opposite of him swung his weapon with such strength; Oliver could feel the vibrations in the air accompanying the downward blur. Oliver jumped backwards, causing the attack to miss its intended target, creating space between the two and resetting the dynamics of their fight.

While the League's assassin held a sharpened long-sword, Oliver held something of a modified short-sword, a gift from the village's blacksmith. Instead of traditional iron or tempered steel, his blade was of a sleek black, made from the same ores as his prosthetic arm. He held the sword with a reversed grip, its sharpened tip pointing towards the chamber's floor.

Due to the difference in their weapon's range, his opponent had the advantage of distance, allowing him to take his time as his weapon feinted to their sides. He kept moving, making it difficult for Oliver to find an opening for attack, baiting for him to over-commit, to make a fatal mistake.

His blade slid to the left, to the right, then suddenly shot forward in the direction of Oliver's center mass. Prepared for the attack, Oliver parried his blow, his blade meeting the side of the man's forward thrust, shoving it to the side. But even with his deflected attack, the trained assassin did not stumble, but instead regained his momentum in a split second, his sword slicing back upwards with the same speed.

It shot past Oliver's weapon, giving him no chance to deviate or to defend himself from the resulting path, it was impossible to bring his blade back up with the same speed. But it was not what Oliver had in mind. He watched as the blade shot towards his chest, and almost as though time was slowed down, he reached forward with his metallic arm at the very last moment, his fists clenching as the hardened plates solidified around it. The sword clashed again his arm with colossal force, sparks flying as the assassin's eyes widened in surprise, as Oliver's sword pressed against his throat seconds later.

With the assassin's defeat, they each then took a step back, his opponent bowing respectfully before exiting the designated training area. Looking down towards his arm, he clenched and unclenched his palm, studying the changing properties of his prosthetic limb. It was something he discovered a few days back when first training with Nyssa. In order for his arm to gain smoother movements, to twist and to twirl like one made of flesh, the metallic plates running down his forearm were built with empty space in between them. Kind of like the empty space between trail tracks, that prevents them from breaking whenever they expand due to heat.

Yet by clamping his fingers down and clenching as hard as he could, the plates would contract, creating a hardened exterior that could be used as a shield of sorts. The ores that were used to create his limb were of a harder material than of a conventional blade. The latter couldn't even leave a scratch.

Instead of treating it as a vulnerability and finding a sort of fighting style to cover up his weaknesses, he was learning to use it to his advantage, to revolve his training around the strengths of his arm. Using a short-sword, it lessened the weight on his left arm, granting him greater speed and movement. The drawback of using a shorter blade was that he had to get closer to his opponents, but with his right arm functioning as a shield of sorts, blocking and sometimes even catching his opponent's weapon, it complimented perfectly well with his shorter, yet deadlier blade.

He practiced hours with Nyssa each day, and when she got tired, he would ask one of the guards to take her place. He was adamant on becoming as good with a sword as he once was with a bow. With his mind set on training, nothing could break his resolve.

The league had weapons of all sorts for them to train with, from swords to flails and of course, bows. A few days back, he tried firing one. He took a long aim before releasing the arrow, watching as it flew swiftly across the room, slanting at the last moment and impaling to the side of the target dummy. While he still managed to find his target, his aim was more than a little off. He couldn't explain it, but something inside of him felt different, a feeling once held but forever lost. The next few shots were equally inconsistent, some landing above the target, others completely missing his mark.

He could feel his growing frustration, and apparently, so can Nyssa. She approached him, her voice quickly soothing his growing anger.

"May I?"

He handed her the bow, watching as she moved to where he stood. Holding onto the handle, she positioned the weapon in front of her before sliding an arrow into the bow's rest. Slowly, she pulled the string back, one eye closing as she focused onto the circular mark by the dummy's chest. She breathed in, then held her breath for a long second before releasing, allowing the string to go taunt as the arrow shot forth from her grip, exactly like how he taught her.

It flew across the room in a blur, impaling the dummy, missing the little target dot by a few mere inches.

"You're getting better." He whistled as he took a closer look at where her arrow landed.

He was quite surprised when he learned of her inability to handle a bow. Being proficient at almost all forms of weaponry, he would have expected her to be equally, if not better than he was at using such weapons.

"Because they aren't reliable." She answered when he initially asked her why.

"There are external factors at play. It is not just about your aim or the amount of practice you have, but there are certain things that you just simply have no control over. The weather, the wind speed, the multitude of accidents that could take place in the short seconds before your arrow finds its mark."

She looked towards her blade, "a sword on the other hand, it relies solely on your own abilities. Your strength, your speed, your technique. You are depending solely on yourself, you are not putting your chances to a mere coin flip, to things that are beyond your control."

In a way, he understood exactly what she meant. But as she shared her feelings, he couldn't help but to imagine a younger Nyssa, taught as a child to fend only for herself, to never trust, to never place her fate in the hands of others. To create a wall around herself, a defensive, yet lonely existence.

Compared to hers, his childhood was a walk in the park, it reflected in them both, shaping who they were today.

"I... I hope you are not insulted by my thoughts." She added in afterwards when she noticed how quiet he was, "you are an excellent teacher and I will forever cherish the skills that you've imparted to me."

Perhaps one day, he could finally take a peek past her walls. But until then, he hoped that she could learn to trust him, even just a little bit.

**.**

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**.**

**.**

It was only after another three weeks before Ra's demanded their audience once more. This time, there were no tests involved, no clashing of swords, no drawing of blood.

There was something else he wanted from them both, a league mission picked specifically for the two. He knew of their training, of Oliver's returning strength. They were finally ready.

As Ra's waited for their arrival, he placed his arms behind his back, watching as the candles softly flickered in the growing cold.

The harsher parts of winter will soon be over, and when spring comes, the league shall once again regain its hold upon the rest of the world.

**.**

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**.**

**.**

He could feel the change in atmosphere as they entered the room. Oliver felt the slight tremors in his arm as they approached the lone man, a fresh surge of adrenaline that sent him on edge, almost as though his body subconsciously recognized the man, of what pain he had inflicted upon Oliver, his muscles tensing in preparation for an escalated situation.

Ra's al Ghul stood by his lonesome, his eyes burrowed flatly into them both. Whatever the Demon's head was planning, neither one of them could tell.

The room was different from the others, with polished floors and warm rugs, lit softly by the several torches that hung from four corners. It gave off a surreal sensation, a comfortable ambiance, warm and vivid, not what he imagined as the personal quarters of the head assassin. He was surprised even further when Ra's took a step back, revealing the glasses he had set aside, along with a jug of darkened liquid, assumed to be wine of some kind.

"Oliver Queen," his arms parted at their arrival, a small greeting of sorts. His eyes lingered onto the man, before glancing towards the woman by his side, "and my child. Quite the inseparable pair."

"What do you want?" Oliver demanded, his tone was aggressive, but controlled, "why did you ask for us?"

"Because… you took my daughter's hand in marriage," Ra's replied nonchalantly, as though it was the most obvious of topics to be brought up, "a father is most definitely interested in meeting with his future son-in-law."

"You speak as though we were not previously acquainted." Oliver growled, refusing to believe that the man held no other ulterior motives, "of all the times you have previously tried to kill me."

"That is before I've learned of both your… relationship." His eyes rested lazily onto Oliver's, his voice without a threatening tone, but with obvious implications, "if I had really wanted to kill you, Oliver Queen, do you honestly believe you would still be standing before me here, today?"

Oliver did not reply, as much as he wanted to deny, to oppose that statement, a part of him knew otherwise. Ra's could have killed him a dozen times over in the last few months without effort, without even battling an eyelid. It would have been that easy. But for some reason or another, he did not, and it wasn't because of his daughter, Oliver knew that much.

"Child," he looked towards Nyssa before motioning to the drinks by their side, "pour us each a glass."

She did not defy his request, heading to his side like an obedient child, carefully lifting the jug and pouring into three separate cups.

"Father," she bowed slightly as he accepted the first, though her actions were done more in habit than in respect.

Moving towards Oliver, she lifted the glass off its tray and held it to him, her eyes softly catching his, "beloved."

It was the first time she referred to him in such a way, but it was no other than to reaffirm their position in front of her father.

Their fingers slightly brushed as he took the glass off her hands, an electrifying contact that did little to alleviate the uneasiness in this room. She herself held on to the last cup.

Oliver waited until Ra's drank from the cup before he attempted his own. And even so, he only took just mere sips of the sweetened liquid, still suspicious of its content.

"When is the date?" Ra's asked after emptying his cup.

"Date?" Oliver repeated his question with uncertainty.

"Of the marriage."

It was dumbfoundedly astonishing, to have Ra's asking him such a question with the utmost casualness, as though they were mere friends, discussing the previous night's game. It was most peculiar; to have a conversation in such a manner with someone that nearly took his life on multiple occasions. Yet at the same time, the man's ease with their situation suggested a form of normality with violence, revealing his ability to ruthlessly compartmentalize between his personal and professional stance.

"I…" Oliver stuttered, his mind blank at the unexpected question, everything he had previously rehearsed with Nyssa, lost to the sudden change in pace.

"You must not have thought so far ahead," Ra's smiled, like he could read Oliver's mind, seeing through their pretense but was instead helping extricate him from where he had gotten himself stuck. "It doesn't matter," he continued, "we can have it here, right in the heart of Nanda Parbat, when the two of you return."

"Return?" Oliver questioned, he knew it was finally here, beyond the trickery and the deceit, the true reason why Ra's brought them here today.

"Think of it as an early wedding present," Ra's replied, "a honeymoon trip for the both of you."

"Except…?" Oliver interrupted, knowing fully well that a simple holiday wasn't the extent of their trip.

"Except you have to accomplish a task for me." All resemblances of his previous affection evaporated within the next second, the true Ra's al Ghul stepping forth from behind his feigned deception, "something… important."

"The United Nations' next Peace Summit will be taking place in exactly twenty days. Dignitaries and politicians from all over the world will be in attendance. Now, while I believe their misguided attempts to bring peace is an honorable stance, I also believe that it will ultimately fail due to the selfishness of prevailing human nature. But not about that, there is something else at stake."

"A recently elected Ukrainian minister will be at this Summit, pushing forward a treaty that could possibly bring forth the ends of a decade long conflict between his country and neighboring Russia. Now, unfortunately for them, we cannot let that happen." He paused for a moment before continuing, "while we do not agree with the policies of certain war hungry dictators, it's their appetites that keeps us well funded. It would do none of us good to lose that particular stream of revenue."

"The job," he explained, "it is simple. Do whatever necessary to prevent the treaty from being presented. I have secured tickets for you both to attend the beforehand dinner. It isn't a matter of numbers or I would have sent an army. Due to their increased security measures for the Summit, a smaller team would do better at infiltrating their defenses. It would depend on both your abilities to blend in and to operate near enemy forces. Which I believe you two are more than excellent in."

There was a long pause, before Oliver retorted, "what if I said no?"

"Then I will judge you as not worthy. Not enough to ascend in my place, and not enough to take my daughter's hand in marriage." Ra's looked directly at Oliver, the malicious intent clear in his eyes, "and if you were to fail, I will allow you to watch as Starling burns, right before I take your head off myself."

Before he could reply, Nyssa slumped onto the ground beside them. Oliver turned, only to feel a sudden pang of dizziness washing over him.

"What…" He muttered as he fell onto his knees. Ignoring his own weakened state, he clamored over to the unconscious female, relieved when he realized that she was still breathing, "what did you… do?"

Ra's remained quiet as he stared down at the incapacitated figure.

"The drink…" Oliver gasped, his skepticism proven correct, albeit too late.

"Wine made from the petals of the Oleander plant. While fatal in large amounts, smaller doses mixed with certain other herbs form a sort of anesthetic that brings forth unconsciousness in a matter of minutes, a forced coma that lasts for days. Of course, like any other poison, you build up certain forms of resistance towards it after constant ingestion," it explained why Ra's remained unaffected.

"Don't worry, I have no intentions of harming you both. In fact, I'm doing you two a favor." Ra's explained further, "you see, the two of you are unable to enter the country by conventional means. With all of today's rapidly improving technology, it's no longer the quality of your fake passport or good acting skills. You will be caught seconds after stepping foot onto the tarmac."

"You have to enter by other means, a two week long journey that involves navigating through the North Atlantic Ocean, followed by a journey from the Russian continent into the heart of Europe. Fortunately for you both, neither one of you will have to participate in that tiring trek. I already have men prepared, in place to deliver you to your proper destination."

"In fact, the two of you will be unconscious through most of the journey, locked in caskets, constantly injected with a serum that will drastically lower your heart rates until the provided antidote is given, creating the illusion of death whenever necessary. It won't hold up under intense scrutiny of course, but you're entering the country through a very much corrupted Russian port. Nothing a bribe won't fix."

As Oliver slipped into unconsciousness, Ra's left him with a final goodbye.

"Paris awaits."

**.**

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**.**


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since we've concluded with the first arc, I went back and re-edited everything from the first chapter, checking for typos, mistakes, etc etc. I also merged a few of the shorter chapters together, that's why the story's chapters dropped by a few.
> 
> And now, we start we the first chapter of the 2nd arc. It's a lot longer than my previous chapters.

Patrik was a ten year old boy with huge innocent eyes and even bigger dreams. Before the rebel militia bombed the only school in his little village, he had dreams of becoming a doctor. There wasn't one where he grew up, and the elders had to walk for hours to the neighboring village in order to seek help whenever needed. He sought to relieve them of that burden, but unfortunately, reality wasn't as easy as those of his dreams.

Leaning onto the remains of an old and crumbling wall, his only company that morning was the dozens of cows and goats that were lazily grazing across the endless fields, occupied by whatever fueled their mundane thoughts, undisturbed by their single lone observer.

It was a beautiful morning, peaceful and untroubled by the pollution of modern day life. The coming breeze of spring greeted him with the slight buzzing of insects, returning home from the denouement of winter. It was something of a regular schedule for the boy, at least for the last two weeks or so. He visited early every morning, but it wasn't for the scenery nor the uninterested animals grazing by.

It was a rainy morning that day, his sandy hair clumped and plastered against his forehead when he noticed the wooden casket dumped to the side, hidden within the overgrown weeds.

His face instantly lit up with excitement, but along came apprehension and uneasiness. He approached the box slowly, as though a monster could pop out at any second. Shooing away the goats that found a sudden interest in the unmoving object, his fingers were more than a little shaky as he reached for the metallic clasps by the side. He jumped when they clicked apart, surprised by the sudden noise. The top was a little heavier than he expected, a small grunt as he heaved the casket open.

A man laid inside, still and motionless. There were needles attached to his arms, IV drips that held substances the boy did not understand. An oxygen mask rested over the bottom of the man's face, the forming condensation an indication that he was still breathing and alive.

What caught the boy's eye however, was the envelope by the side of the casket, one that was addressed to him.

Eagerly tearing it apart, his eyes widened even further at the stack of notes inside, exactly as promised. It might not be worth much in current society, but it was more than enough in this part of the world to feed his family for months. Pocketing the cash, he reached inside of the envelope and removed the two little inconspicuous pills. Following the instructions he was given, he lifted the mask off the man, propped his mouth open and dropped the pills down his throat.

A few minutes later, there was a loud gasp as Oliver Queen returned to the world of the living.

**.**

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**.**

Every single part of him hurt, but it was only from the rush of blood to his inert extremities. Being unconscious for the week long journey, the constant supply of drugs and nutrients pumped into him kept him alive, but they granted little for the atrophy of his muscles. He was fuzzy for a long while, before he realized it wasn't just his body getting accustomed to the pain, but from the chemicals still inside of his body.

Pulling the needles out of his wrist, he tried crawling out of the coffin, but wasn't fully prepared for his weakened state as he tumbled into the muddy fields below. He was almost completely naked, except for a pair of whitened undergarments that were already stained from his fall. It was freezing, and was tired, he wanted nothing more than to just lay down there and sleep for the longest time.

Slowly, he dragged himself back up onto his feet, trying to get a better read of the situation around him. It was an unfamiliar sight, a sky full of clouds, vast fields and tall mountains to the horizon. The wind was chilling, but not as terrible as the ones of Nanda Parbat.

He was suddenly reminded of what Ra's did, of the things he was told before unconsciousness took hold. Was he successfully smuggled into the Northern Hemisphere?

It was only then he noticed the little boy standing behind him, staring right at him with an astounded smile. The boy spoke, but in a language he could not fully comprehend, with what he recognized as traces of Russian roots in between. With the years Oliver spent as a Bratva member, as part of the Russian Mafia, he became quite proficient in their language, but the boy was speaking in a different dialect. Perhaps from one of the smaller villages to the south.

They couldn't understand what the other was saying, but at least Oliver understood when the boy beckoned at him to follow. They exited the muddy fields, coming upon a deserted road that led seemingly forever into the distance. As they followed by the path, they soon came upon a sign by the side of the road, he understood the Cyrillic symbols, which was further evidence of his location. What slightly vexed him however, was that the stated village was at least another ten miles away. He was practically naked and it was freezing.

A few hours and probably more than a few thousand muddy footprints later, they found themselves upon the edge of a little village. Leaving the uneven roads behind, they made their way down an ancient street made of cobblestones, a slight comfort to his naked soles. There were no streetlights in sight, the evening gloom casting indistinct shadows, over outlines of tiny buildings, over unattended carts.

His teeth were chattering by the time they arrived at the boy's home, a wooden hut with a chimney by the side, as visible trails of smoke wisped into the skies above. He followed the boy in, his eyes quickly scanning the cramped interiors, from a dining table to a bed filled with heavy tattered sheets. A few pair of eyes glanced nervously in his direction, an old lady and four of her young children.

The boy that led him here approached the old lady, Oliver saw them both arguing for the longest while before the old lady eventually conceded. She led him to a dirty bathroom while the boy ran out of the building, but quickly returned with a pair of clothing that were a size too big, but he wasn't about to complain, he was grateful to be shielded from the growing chills. Thanking them both, he headed into the bathroom and showered for the first time since being drugged by Ra's.

An hour later, he was hunched over the dining table, hungrily digging into a bowl of potato soup as six pair of inquisitive eyes stared quizzically in his direction. He was famished, his first taste of food in a long while. It was nothing special, a broth of potato with a mixture of cheap herbs and spices. But it tasted perfect, even more so in the cold weather. There was a tiny slice of bread offered to him as well, which he hungrily devoured in seconds. From the portion he was given, he could tell that food wasn't at abundance where he was.

**.**

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**.**

A dusty old pickup came for him the next day, drove by an Old Russian man missing half of his teeth. The driver did not speak English either, but spoke in a dialect of Russian that Oliver could partly understand. Waving goodbye to the little boy and thanking them for their hospitality, the two of them started on their journey.

Oliver had more than a few questions, some of which the man was able to answer. From what he gathered, they were currently traveling along the coastline of Latvia, which explained the Russian dialect. It was also close to four months since he had left Starling for Nanda Parbat. He also found out that the driver was paid only to ferry him from the village to another location, no doubt by one of Ra's men.

He wanted to remain alert and vigilant, but decided against it as the night crept slowly by. Deciding to conserve his strength instead, it wasn't long before he fell into an uneasy rest, assaulted by dreams of his family, of Starling, of Nyssa.

When he woke hours later, the vehicle had stopped. It was still pitch black outside, but he could hear the sound of ocean waves, accompanying the noisy flood of chipping crickets. Opening the doors, Oliver got out of the vehicle and stretched his tired limbs, noticing as a tiny light appeared in the horizon. It flashed in his direction, a lamp of sorts, coming in from the direction of the ocean, a small boat that soon appeared as his eyes better adjusted to the darkness.

He approached the tiny fishing boat as they eventually docked, the tiny lamp illuminating the presence of two fully bearded men, who motioned in his direction. Carefully traversing the rocky path, he wadded across the ankle deep waters before stopping by the side of the vessel. One of the men held an arm to him, hoisting him upwards and pulling him onto the ship.

The first thing he noticed was the overwhelming scent of fish. Something he quickly got used to over the next five days.,The tiny ship braved through rough oceans and violent storms as they circled along the continent's coastline, far enough to escape detection, but never close enough to be spotted. The sailors charted out their path for him on the first day, from Latvia through Denmark, along the coasts of Netherlands and Belgium before eventually arriving by the port of France.

They told him in a mixture of French and broken English that they were Fisherman from Berck, a coastal commune located along the coastlines of Northern France. As they have been fishing along the same path for decades, there will be no scrutiny when they return home as they have all the other times. If by a stroke of unluckiness, they get randomly inspected by coastguards, they have a secret compartment for him to hide within the fishes' storage area.

After a few long days of fish sandwiches and tea, they eventually arrived by the tiny coastal port. They stopped within swimming distance from shore, giving him a backpack of necessary equipment and wishing him luck. Changing into the scuba suit they provided, he dived into the murky, freezing depths, slowly making his way to shore.

Running towards the deserted tree lines, he found himself cover before stripping of the suit, tossing them aside and changing into the civilian clothing stashed in the bags. A wallet filled with spare cash and a fake ID was also provided. It wasn't something that would hold up under intense scrutiny, but was more than enough if he were to encounter random roadblocks. Along with those was a neatly folded map and a jolted down address. Trekking towards the nearest village, it did not take him long to find an unattended vehicle, which he quietly broke into and hot-wired.

It took a full day before the grass fields gave way to populated streets, another before he saw the city's towering skyline. He had plenty of gas from before, and held more than enough cash for another refill, along with several meals in between his trip. He slept in the car whenever needed, and continued driving whenever he found strength to. He knew he had a deadline, he couldn't arrive after the treaty was presented, it would be too late by then.

As he drove into the city, he was quickly submerged within the engulfing waves of rush hour traffic, as cars and taxis converged upon him from every corner, as impatient honks and angry French vulgarities rained from all around him. It brought a smile to his lips, the familiarity of civilization, it was good to be back.

**.**

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**.**

**.**

When he finally arrived at the address he was given, he realized it was a tiny luxury clothing store of sorts. A dainty store at the edge of an upscale neighborhood, with mannequins dressed in brands costing upwards of tens of thousands. A tiny bell signaled his entrance, alerting a bald Frenchman to his arrival. The man shook his head and sent a stream of unrecognizable sentences in his direction. When he realized that Oliver couldn't understand his language, he switched to English, "Store, closed."

"I was told to come here?" Oliver replied, showing him the piece of paper with the written address, "is this the right address?"

Approaching Oliver from behind the store's counter, he took a closer look at provided piece before glancing over towards Oliver, the frown upon his face instantly replaced by a welcoming smile.

"Ah. You must be him." Turning away, he starting moving to the back of the store, "please follow me, monsieur."

Stopping Oliver in front of a full length-ed mirror, the man took out a measuring tape and started to take his measurements with meticulous details, from his height to his arm's length all the way to his shoulder's width. When he was done, he exited the room, leaving Oliver to himself for a few long minutes before returning with a handful of formal clothing.

"Put it on, quickly," the man urged, not caring one bit about Oliver's privacy. Stripping out of his clothing, Oliver stepped into the expensive tuxedo, finding it a perfect fit, much to the Frenchmen's satisfaction. He wore something like a pleated shirt on the inside, a tie with a dark shade of blue followed by a black colored suit that buttoned suavely together by his front. Studying himself in the mirror, he resembled something of a businessman or a politician, perfect for his cover.

"You're supposed to arrive the day before," the man muttered as he brought Oliver back into the front of the store before drawing the binds and changing the 'open' sign to 'closed.' He then started digging underneath his desk, finding a compact briefcase that he tossed onto the table, "she came and got her stuff on time."

"Who, Nyssa?" He asked eagerly, but the man ignored him as he popped the briefcase open. He looked through the contents, double checking everything was in place before handing them to Oliver, "everything's here, go now."

A car was already waiting for them as he exited, sleek with tinted windows. The Frenchmen opened the doors for him, allowing Oliver to enter with the briefcase, slamming it shut before they were quickly roaring down the driveway.

**.**

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**.**

As they drove, Oliver studied the contents of the briefcase, popping the lock open and pouring it all onto the seat beside him. There were half a dozen files, along with what he assumed was a hotel room's card key. Flipping through the files, he realized they were mission dossiers, each containing a mixture of information on both the Peace Summit and his target, Viktor Dzubenko.

He looked at the provided photographs, burning the image of that man into his mind; around 6.2, leaned build, steel eyes, sharp nose, clean cut, identifying mole. As he continued flipping through the dossier, uncertainty began to cloud his mind, hesitation danced along the edges of his skull. The man he was targeting, he was anything but a villain, in fact, the complete opposite. A family man, with a wife and four children, someone that left his prestigious banking post to instead try and solve his country's problems. The treaty that he was bringing forward could potentially lead to the end of a decade long conflict that took the lives of millions, could potentially save even more.

His thoughts were interrupted by the slowing of the vehicle as it turned into the arrival lane of what he recognized as the Shangri-La Paris, a luxurious hotel he frequented during his trips to Paris in the past. Exiting the vehicle, he turned towards the Eiffel tower, spotting the towering monument in the distance, it stood bravely like a lone entity, standing above everything else, as though guarding Paris from invaders invisible to the eye.

Respectfully declining the approaching bellhop's help, he entered the vast hotel by himself, greeted by the expensive marble-lined lobby, the variety of languages and dialects that soon overwhelmed him. He stopped by the counter, smiling innocently at the young lady managing the desk.

"Hi," he rested his arms on the table, sighing heavily as he pretended to be a forgetful tourist, "I seemed to have forgotten my room number, I have my cardkey though, can you help?"

"Sure," the clerk returned a polite smile as she turned towards the computer screen in front of her before accepting the key Oliver found in the briefcase. She looked at the numbers written on the back before typing them into the system. "Mr.… Smith," she handed the card back with both hands, a courteous and professional gesture, "your room number is eight-one-seven, located on the South-side corner, tower two." She gestured towards the elevators behind him, "if you forgot which tower you're in, it's the one to your left."

There were five towers, two for the regular rooms, one for the suites, one for special guests and one for conference rooms.

After apologizing again for his forgetfulness, Oliver thanked the clerk a final time before heading towards the service stairs. He wasn't sure if he was walking into a trap, or if someone was watching him closely by, monitoring his movements. Either way, there wasn't a downside to his paranoia, his need for safety measures.

The cameras in the lift would have been too easy for them, the stairs however, they weren't monitored as closely. He remembered a drunken midnight tryst with a French lady by the stairwells almost a decade ago. They weren't interrupted back then. Which meant that the hotel staff were either very polite, or that there were no security cameras here.

Making his way up to the eighth floor, he stuck a head out from behind the doors, making sure that the corridors were empty before he headed towards his room. Stopping in front of the room, he noticed the light that leaked from underneath the door, which meant that someone else was inside. Holding his palm towards the eyehole and blocking its path, he pressed the key card towards the scanner, waiting for the beep that would turn the red light green.

As it did, he pushed onto the doorknob, slowly as he inched the door forward. While the entrance was lit, the rest of the room was shrouded in darkness. Holding the briefcase in front of him like a shield, he carefully inched ahead, making his way into the living room when he felt a sudden flurry of approaching movement.

His attacker appeared from the darkness, gleaming blades held in each arm. They arced towards him with deadly intent, one slicing through the air as he moved to the side, the other piercing through the briefcase that he held up. Slamming his fist down onto the trapped knife, he felt the attacker's grip loosen, enough for him to toss the briefcase aside, along with the trapped weapon.

The second lanced towards him immediately, not fazed by the loss of its twin. Dodging the attack, he reached for the assailant's arm, locking it to his side, instantly restricting and preventing further use of the weapon. His opponent reacted to his attack without hesitation, a well-trained decision, dropping the knife immediately, whipping his elbow towards Oliver's skull instead. Releasing his grip in order to dodge the spinning blur, Oliver wasn't prepared for the sudden movement as a forceful kick slammed into the side of his head, reeling him to the left.

His opponent did not give him a chance to recover, another elbow instantly snapping towards him, which he instinctively parried with his arms brought up. As the attacker reeled backwards to strike, Oliver was prepared this time, catching the person's ankle in mid kick. He twisted hard, causing the attacker to lose balance as he dived forward, one hand behind the person's neck, another underneath his thighs. He swung with all of his might, a judo throw that had them whipping forward, using their combined momentum to drive his opponent onto the ground.

He heard a grunt from underneath him, a female's voice. And as his eyes got accustomed to the darkness, it locked onto a pair of familiar brown orbs.

"Nyssa?"

"Oliver…?" She blinked before exhaling painfully, her hands pressed onto where she took the brunt of his slam, "I thought…"

"We thought the same," he replied sheepishly.

The looked at each other for the longest time, before he rolled off her.

"You were supposed to arrive yesterday, before me," she pulled herself upright, "I thought something happened to you."

"I wasn't in charge of the travel plans remember?" He joked, "nor the itinerary."

She wasn't laughing, nor particularly amused, "when I arrived and found you missing, I was worried. There were a million things that could have gone wrong."

"I'm here now," he reached out and squeezed her shoulders reassuringly, as he did whenever something troubled her back in Nanda Parbat, the action small, but purposeful.

"And you almost killed me," she smiled.

"Technically, you did attack me first."

"You didn't knock."

They laughed before he replied, "that's true. I should have knocked."

**.**

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**.**

They spent the next hour catching up, comparing the details of their journey. Hers was somewhat similar to his, but from a different path and direction. She traveled mostly by land, her casket delivered to Greece, where she traveled into the heart of Germany under a fake passport before taking the connecting high speed railway into France.

Arriving almost two days earlier, she already scouted out the Peace Summit's location, along with fully memorizing not just their target's details, but all of his bodyguards as well. "We were supposed to have two days, the first to carry out or mission, the second if unforeseen circumstances prevented us on the first. But since you were not here, I had to plan out everything on my own, using the first day for reconnaissance."

It reminded him, "when is the Summit taking place actually?"

"In six hours," she brought out the floor plans of the hotel, that was a lot sooner than he expected "it's taking place in the grand conference hall, at the hotel's fifth tower. Viktor Dzubenko is the third speaker."

"What about this," he pointed to the list that showed the events for the day, "the art exhibition that is starting in forty five minutes."

"What about it?"

"Viktor Dzubenko used to be an avid art collector. He sold off most of his paintings in order to raise the necessary funds for his proposed treaty to move forward, but I'm quite sure he won't be able to resist the charms of a Van Gogh."

She thought for a moment before agreeing with him, if they could find Viktor Dzubenko at the exhibit, it would mean that have two individual chances of taking the man out, not including the lessened security at the exhibit. Their hotel's hire security would have their focus on the pieces of art, not the visiting members, but there was still a problem. "While we have invitations for the Peace Submit, we don't have any for the art exhibition."

"Won't be too hard to find two." He looked around the room, "do we have any equipment?"

"I thought you would never ask," she grinned before heading into the bedroom, reaching underneath the bed and procuring a large briefcase. Hoisting it up onto the table, she keyed in the lock's combination and unzipped it, showing him all of the prepared equipment. From hidden earpieces and cellphones to silenced weaponry, from tracking modules all the way to Semtex grenades. There were more than prepared for a tiny war.

Taking out the earpieces, she tossed one to him before inserting the other in her ear. It would allow them to communicate apart without drawing attention to themselves. They quickly tested all of the remaining equipment. The guns were mostly left untouched, he was more interested in the tracking devices while her attention was more focused towards the retractable knifes.

When they were eventually done, he turned towards her and asked, "shall we head out now? If he is planning to visit the exhibit, I want to get a proper look around before he arrives."

"I have to change first," she said suddenly, "it's a formal event."

"Oh," that did not cross his mind at all. Nyssa was dressed in practical clothing, from a normal pair of jeans to a jacket that hung loosely around her.

"I… Well, how about I go see if I can find ourselves some invitations first," he tapped onto his earpiece, "we'll meet in thirty minutes at the entrance, if there's anything else we can communicate through this."

As she headed into the bathroom, he pocketed a few of the provided equipment before leaving the hotel room. He headed back down into the lobby, making his way over towards the hotel's fifth tower, where most of the event halls were located. Taking the lift up to the third floor, he took a quick scan of his surroundings before approaching one of the display vases to the side.

Taking out one of the smaller timed explosives, he planted it behind the ceramic object. This particular explosive did not have too strong of an impact, it's small and contained, used to blast open locked or chained doors. Perfect for a distraction, but not powerful enough to hurt anyone or draw too much attention.

With everything properly set up, he approached the man standing in front of the exhibition hall, "hey there, I'm not sure if my invitation is for tonight or tomorrow, can you check for me?"

"Sure," the man flipped open the guest list, "name?"

"Smit-" Before he could finish his sentence, there was a resounding crack from the corridors behind them, no doubt from the planted explosive.

"I saw a few kids playing back there," he said to the shocked Frenchmen, "maybe you should check it out."

As the man hurried down to where the cracked vase was, Oliver quickly took out one of the prepared phones and snapped through a few pages of the guest list. Taking clear images of the names along with their room numbers.

When the man returned afterwards, Oliver made a show of putting his phone down, as though he was just finishing with a call.

"Just a broken vase," the man sighed in relief, "probably from the kids you saw. I have the cleaners coming. Now, what did you say your name was?"

"Oh don't worry," he smiled, "my wife just called me and confirmed that ours are for tonight. Thank you again."

Making his way back down to the lobby, he headed to an unattended hotel phone. Opening the cellphone's gallery, he called every single number on the five pages he managed to snap a photo of, it was easy as their room numbers were listed next to their names. Those that answered, he hung immediately, those that did not, he let ring for a minute before writing their names down onto a piece of paper. Due to the art exhibition being a five day event, he knew that most of the attending guests were not going to be present on every single day.

Those that answered the call, he crossed off their names. Those that did not, there was a chance that they were out, exploring the endless Paris streets instead, deciding to visit the art exhibition on another day. He was left with eighteen names, he crossed out the female ones. He then called the valet service next, pretending to be a disgruntled husband, asking them to check the car park and see if his wife have returned from her all day spa trip. Being just a vehicle check, and having the names and room numbers of those he was impersonating, they had no reason to suspect him of anything else.

The ones whose cars were in, he crossed out, it would mean that they were still in the hotel, just not in their rooms. The ones that were still out, he wrote down. Only five names remained. Next, he made his way towards the first room on the list. He stopped by one of the cleaning carts, lifting a master key which he used to unlock the door of the first room. Quickly returning the key before the cleaning lady noticed, he headed back to the unlocked room, wanting to knock, to double confirm that the room was empty when he heard static briefly through his hidden earpiece.

He stopped for a moment, listening as the sounds of dripping water followed through. It was light and soft, like the platters coming from a showerhead. He had the brief image of an undressed Nyssa, forgetting to turn off the earpiece before stepping into the shower. Shaking that thought from his mind, he muted the audio before tapping lightly onto the door. When there was no answer, he entered.

He was lucky, extremely so. The first room that he entered, he found exactly what he needed. Digging into the bedside drawers, he found the envelope that sealed the invitations, a five day pass for Mr. and Mrs. "Allen." Sliding them into the side of his suit, he made sure that everything was as when he entered before quietly leaving the room.

Tapping onto his earpiece and turning the audio back on, he spoke, "you there?"

"Yes." She replied almost instantly, "I'm almost done."

"I have the invitations." I'll wait for you at the elevator.

"Acknowledged."

He headed back to the fifth tower, taking it up to the third floor. As he exited, he noticed that the vase was already quickly replaced, another one where the previous was, as though nothing happened in the very first place. Expected of a five star hotel such as the Shangri-La.

He was waiting by elevator when the doors opened and a familiar figure stepped out. Oliver had never seen Viktor Dzubenko in person, but he recognized the Ukrainian from his photographs. Four bodyguards flanked the man, expertly positioned, he could tell that they were armed. He looked away as the stepped out of the elevator, heading towards the entrance of the art exhibit.

"He's here." He whispered into the earpiece before following, "I'll leave your invitation at the entrance, you're Mrs. Allen."

"Noted," there was a bit of static on her end, he assumed she was in the lift.

Heading towards the man he saw previously, he extended the invitation, along with the second, "my wife's running late, can you hold onto hers for me?"

"Of course, Mr Allen," the Frenchmen smiled as he accepted the two invitations before waving him in, "please enjoy your visit."

**.**

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**.**

Oliver stepped into the grand hall, losing sight of his target within the growing crowd. Men and women of all ages flocked together in order to grant themselves a better view of the expensive paintings on display. All of them were dressed formally, the men in expensive suits, the women in fluttering dresses of every color. It felt like he stepped backwards in time, to a twentieth century ballroom.

He moved up to the second floor, finding himself a better vantage point over the level below. He scanned the crowd, trying to find his target when she stepped into the hall. Adorning a dark colored dress in an ocean of vibrancy, she stood out as though an elegant smudge upon a clean canvass. Her dress hugged tightly the woman's curves, the chandeliers above coruscated brightly across the warmness of her skin, giving her the most alluring of lambent glows.

When he moved over and intercepted her, he noticed that she was wearing makeup, a minimal dab that accentuated her striking features. "You're not exactly keeping a low profile," he whispered as he moved beside her, his eyes towards the painting in front of them. She stood next to him, her gaze equally forward. From an observer's standpoint, they looked like strangers, both enjoying the same piece of art, "what do you mean?"

"I think you look more beautiful than most of the paintings up there."

Nyssa noticed his gaze upon her through the reflection of the painting's frame. It sent a warm flush that expended outwards from her chest, ignoring the urge to smile, she sought to distract herself by looking at the painting's price tag instead, "I do not understand your society. Thirty million dollars for a piece of paper."

"I do not understand it either," he chuckled, "someone people have too much money."

"Don't you have a lot of money as well?" She asked, continuing the conversation.

"Not as much as I used to. After my mother's passing, there was no one left to properly take care of the company. I was never someone that could sit in an office and spend hours discussing business with the shareholders, and with my identity as the Arrow, there just wasn't enough time to take care of the company. I've actually accompanied my mother to this hotel before, during one of her business meetings almost ten years ago."

"I am sorry."

"For?"

"Your mother's passing." She replied, "I've heard of it, by the sword of Slade Wilson."

"Yes."

"Do you miss her?" She asked after a while.

"All the time." He softly answered.

He felt her fingers brushing across the bottom of his palm, a reassuring squeeze following afterwards, reminiscent of the ones he gave her, "she would be proud of you."

"Of the things you did, that you sacrificed for your city," she continued, "I couldn't start to imagine the ends of which you'll go to, for your family… or perhaps a woman you love."

They moved silently onto the next painting, an image of a couple in loving embrace, another exorbitant price tag.

"I would do the same for you," he turned towards her, "the things that we've gone through together, you're as close to my heart as my family."

"Thank you," she replied softly, "that means more than you can imagine."

They moved onward with the crowd, finding themselves soon by the edge of the balcony, the beautiful Paris backdrop behind the two. "From a young age, I was taught to be strong on my own," she leaned against the behind railings, "I was alone until I met Sara. She taught me to love, to see the stars as the beauty that they were. When she passed, they faded and I became alone once more."

"You are not alone," he whispered, "not anymore."

The usual reassuring squeeze went a little different this time, his palm trailed upwards, finding itself curved along the side of her cheeks. Nyssa nestled against his palm, her gentle eyes finding his.

He was about to say something else, but at that moment, they both spotted Viktor Dzubenko passing by. They broke apart instantly, following behind the man's pace without a single word.

"I will flank left." He spoke into the earpiece.

"And I right."

As they disappeared into the crowd, the moment they shared was quickly lost, but never forgotten.

**.**

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**.**


	13. Chapter 13

he two of them moved in a pattern of precise harmony, with a sort of synergy as though they were highly trained operatives with years of working together in the field. Trailing a target was a two man job, a one man team might have been able to pull the mission off, but it wasn't optimal, there were too many unnecessary risks unaccounted for, along with the disadvantageous of not having two in the field.

If a target was highly trained in counter surveillance, he might have deployed certain countermeasures in order to spot or deter those that were in pursuit. The target could randomly stop at certain intervals, could pretend to be suddenly interested in something he saw, or to stop by an abrupt corner and wait for the ones following to pass by. In order to not lose their target, a single operative would have to stop and adjusting accordingly to their target's action and movement, they would have to follow suit, either pretending to be interested in a passing sign, or something in the display windows of a another store.

It would have been too obvious, and with only a single glance, the target could instantly mark all those acting suspicious in his vicinity as potential suspects, remembering their features, recognizing their motives. A two man team however, could prevent that mishap entirely. The first would continue onward, walking past the target as though a random passer-by; he would stop ahead, allowing the second to instead trail the target, to change their positions once more when necessary. They would alternate between their distances, preventing their target from getting a good read of their movements.

The two of them moved accordingly, Nyssa headed up to the second floor immediately, trying to grant herself a better view over the exhibitions below. While Oliver moved behind the target, never far enough to lose them, yet never too close enough to be detected.

Viktor Dzubenko was still accompanied by his guards, who flanked in the four sides of a letter "x" around him. From their visible earpieces to their intimidating presence, curious onlookers could easily speculate the man's importance due to the upcoming Peace Summit, thus keeping their distance, which prevented Oliver from getting too close without drawing too much attention to himself.

Oliver drifted through the bustling crowd, expertly navigating, slipping through the hundreds of flocking visitors, yet never once bumping into or attracting anyone's unnecessary attention. He was like a fleeting shadow, a wisp of smoke that dissipated too quickly, unseen even beneath the gigantic chandeliers that hung above.

Stopping two exhibits to the left of whatever it was that caught Viktor Dzubenko's eye, Oliver pretended to be interested in what seemed like a crushed garbage can painted in varying shades of green, "we need to separate him and his guards somehow."

There was a burst of static as his earpiece readjusted its frequency and connected to Nyssa's, "I agree."

Looking at the enormous chandeliers above them, she wondered for a moment if she could somehow sabotage the glass lighting, to send the massive object crashing down onto the crowd below. It would be initially suspected as a freak accident or some sort, an unfortunate mishap that ended the Ukrainian politician's life. They would have been long gone from the country before the proper authorities managed to uncover anything of note. It would have been too perfect, except for the massive collateral damage. While she cared not for the pieces of expensive art, there would still have been too many unnecessary deaths involved, those that were to be caught in the vicinity of the impact.

Looking back towards Oliver, she wondered what sort of plan he had in mind. There wasn't enough time back at their room to discuss the particulars before they set the plan in motion. She knew what sort of person he was, the changed killer so to speak. Unlike him, Nyssa was unafraid of the demons that exist within humanity; the creature inside of them all that sought to break free, that relished in the blood-lust and violence of mortal men.

Oliver might have been once afraid of losing his humanity, but she was taught from a young age to control, to subdue the demons inside of her, to draw strength when necessary. That was the greatest difference between the two. Were a virus to break free, someone like Oliver would seek the cure, while Nyssa would exterminate all the carriers instead. A violent, but necessary evil.

"I have an idea." His voice came through in the midst of her thoughts, "between here and the Peace Summit, our best chance of getting to him would be when he returns to his room. No witnesses, smaller confined space, lesser chance of anything else going wrong."

"I agree, but there's the problem of getting to his room." Like all of the other important attendees, their room numbers were not entered into the system for their own protection and privacy, it was almost impossible to get to Viktor Dzubenko's room. "That is why our original plan was to strike during the Peace Summit. It was a risky plan, the Summit would be well protected and with armed guards, but now that we're all here, the chances of success have grown tremendously."

"That is why we find out their room number."

"How do you propose that?"

"The tracking modules." He brushed against the tiny packet inside of his suit. It was a recent development in high tech tracking, tiny transmitters in the form of transparent powder. Small undetectable particles that while useless alone, could interact with others nearby, creating strong enough of a signal to be tracked. Compared to the clunky type of trackers that one would normally slip into the clothing of another, this was virtually undetectable unless the person knew exactly what they were looking for.

"We plant it on him," he added in, "and we find out where he is staying."

"I am heading back down," she held onto the side of her dress as she carefully went down the stairs, still very much unfamiliar and unaccustomed to such heels. She liked them, not because of the increased height or for the fashion sense, but how they could be instantly used as a form of weaponry whenever needed. A sharp and crude weapon, but more than enough for her to take a man's life.

Moving alongside him, they further trailed the Ukrainian politician as he traversed across the exhibition hall, they waited for an opening, a chance to plant the powder, but his bodyguards were well trained, always prepared for anyone approaching.

Knowing about Viktor Dzubenko's interest in Van Gouh's art, it wasn't long before Oliver realized that the pieces were arranged accordingly to their year of creation, it was something he could use to his advantage, it gave the Ukrainian a direction to follow, a pattern that Oliver could decipher. Moving to the ends of the exhibition, he entered the restroom, perfect, it was a single-stall occupancy. Which meant that only one person could enter at any given time.

He looked around for a moment before heading towards the hand dryer, taking out some of the powder and placing it along the interior of the heat opening. If someone were to place their hands underneath the machine, the exhaling heat would push the powder outwards and onto their cuffs, they were practically invisible to the human eye, but with enough connected particles, there will still be a signal for Oliver to track.

Leaving the restroom, he went to the side and placed an "out of order" sign by the door. Pressing onto his earpiece, he said, "now, all that is left is to get Viktor into the restroom."

"Easy," she replied, and within a few minutes, Oliver could hear the sounds of shattering glass followed by a stream of Ukrainian profanities. Apparently, Nyssa had waited by the latest exhibit, tripping over the server that came by just as Viktor Dzubenko did, sending the former sprawling across the floor, the glasses of champagne that he held splashing across the Ukrainian's suit.

When Oliver noticed the few heading towards the restroom, he quickly removed the sign, stepping aside and into the shadows. One of the guards went in first, making sure that the room was secure before they took their positions outside, allowing Viktor Dzubenko to enter the secured room on his own.

Oliver then made his way over towards Nyssa's position, the two of them within sight of the restroom.

"Will it work?" She asked.

"We will see."

Grabbing two glasses of champagne off a passing by server, he wondered for a long moment before handing one to Nyssa, "do you… drink?"

Accepting the glass, she shot a playful smile in his direction, "I am not a child. Of course I drink."

"I mean, I just thought that-"

"I know what you mean, Oliver." She laughed softly, the two of them finding a hint of normality in their tumultuous lives, "I was just teasing you. We eat and drink as normally as you do, perhaps just without the inclusion of fast food and or sugared drinks."

He chuckled; it was quite unexpectedly refreshing to see this different side of Nyssa, one that could joke alongside him.

"Don't get too carried away then, Mrs. Allen," he smiled as he brought up their aliases, "it's barely in the evening."

Before she could reply, they noticed the exiting figure, again flanked by his four guards as they returned towards the exhibition. The two of them turned away, obscuring their features as the Ukrainian walked by where they stood.

Oliver took out the device that could detect the tracker's transmission frequency, which satisfied him with how strong the signal was. Their mission here was done, all that was left is to wait.

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

There were another four hours or so before the start of the Summit, and as Viktor Dzubenko seemed to still be quite interested in the rest of the exhibition, the two of them decided to go grab a quick dinner instead; they were starving. Knowing that they could charge the bill to their room, they ended up choosing one of the most expensive restaurants, with Oliver wondering all the while what sort of reaction Ra's would have at their bill.

They stopped by a luxurious sky-lounge on the top floor of the hotel, sitting across the other at a corner table, the Paris skyline visible with just a small turn of their heads. The establishment was dimly lit; it wasn't dark, but softly illuminated with an intimate ambiance of some kind. Wood fire crackled softly from the side, their embers a soft glow against his companion's skin. Lanterns hung from the ceilings above, like beautifully trapped balloons.

He ordered a filet of Kobe beef, making sure as to choose the most expensive cut. It was his first proper meal since his return to civilization, and with Ra's involuntary footing of the bill, it was only fair to spurge a little. Nyssa ordered a seafood medley, a mixture of lobster, salmon and crab. She told him that seafood was her favorite, it's considered somewhat a rarity where she came from, especially due to where Nanda Parbat was located.

He ordered a bottle of 1990 Beausejour Duffau next, a soft clink as they tapped their glasses together. Oliver raised the glass to his nose, inhaling the wonderful aroma of blackberries and cherries. He took a sip, fully enjoying the richness and complexity of the expensive wine, especially its fabulously long finish. He could see her eyes slightly widening at her first taste, the glimmer of enjoyment that quickly crossed her features.

While Nyssa was obviously better than him in both hand-to-hand combat and sword fighting, here was something he excelled in, Oliver knew his luxury wines. He couldn't help but to smile at her reaction.

When Nyssa noticed his gaze, she placed the glass back down, a slight tint across her cheeks, slightly embarrassed by her inability to hide such childish glee. She felt uncomfortable around him, it flustered her, the unexplainable presence that was able to melt all of the walls that she had placed up. She felt vulnerable and exposed, battered with unfamiliar emotions and foreign thoughts. She hated herself for the "what ifs" that came up, hated how they made her heart race.

"Is something the matter?" Oliver asked when he noticed her sudden change "is the taste not to your liking?"

Nyssa hated that about him too, his ability to always see right through her, like he could sense every single one of her conflicting thoughts. Shaking her head, she quickly replied, "no, it is delightful. I just have other things on my mind."

"I see," he quietly said, his eyes gently catching onto hers, "here, let me pour you another."

"Why do you look at me with such eyes," her question was abrupt, but it wasn't an unpleasant accusation, she asked with genuine curiosity, and something else that he couldn't quite catch.

"What do you mean?" Oliver asked, his raised glass slowly moving back towards the table.

"Your eyes, you have trained them to be indifferent to the world. Sometimes, I can sense the growing anger, the ravaging hatred inside of you, but you hide your emotions well, masking them beneath dispassionate eyes." She paused, as though searching for the correct words to say, "but when you look at me, I can see them softening, a sort of tenderness I cannot explain. I can see how much you care for me, the warmth and concern that you are unable to hide, but what scares me... is the adoration that I see."

"It blinds me, Oliver," she whispered, "and I'm afraid that I lack the strength to look away."

"Then don't," his fingers softly glanced across hers, his thumb pressing lightly against the back of her palm, "don't pull yourself away. Stay."

They were still for a second, and in the next, she pulled away, her hands returning to herself, slipping underneath her side of the table. "I... I'm sorry," she got up from her seat, "I will head back first for further preparations."

And as Nyssa left the restaurant, a troubled Oliver remained.


	14. Chapter 14

Shortly after leaving the restaurant, Nyssa made her back to their room. Her dress felt tighter than it possibly could, and her mind filled with more conflicting thoughts than she could comprehend. She understood the emotions that hung between them both, the feelings they had for the other. She wanted nothing more than to embrace and to fully accept the constricting sensations that plagued her chest, yet she was undeniably afraid, terrified of the ensuring repercussions.

They were such polar opposites; they lived such vastly different lives. Could they even start to possibly understand one another?

As the elevator descended to her level, she studied her own reflection in the lift's mirror; a beautiful dress, her hair tied up and proper, it was truly an unfamiliar sight. She told herself that all of it was prepared solely for the mission at hand; she needed to blend in with the rest of the attendees at the exhibition. Yet she couldn't explain why she felt such thrills imagining herself dressing up for him, the way her heart skipped plenty a beat when his eyes gazed over hers, even more so when he thought she wasn't looking.

It was just a stupid piece of fabric, but the implications, the consequences, they were overwhelming.

She knew it was a lie, it wasn't just for the mission. It was for Oliver too. She wanted to show him normalcy. That beyond being the League's assassin, she too, was a woman. But those were foolish thoughts; it was nonsensical to imagine herself as someone in his world, and it was absurd, to think that she could ever escape from her father's grasp. She looked away from the mirror, unwilling to face the situation in front of her.

When the doors slid open with a ding, she hastily exited the elevator, heading in the direction of the room. It was only when she reached for the door knob did Nyssa realized that in her hurry to leave, she left both their key cards with him in the restaurant. It felt like such a cruel joke, even the cosmos were playing tricks on her.

What she needed now more than anything else, was fresh air. Nothing came close to the unpolluted mountain air of Nanda Parbat, but the Paris skyline would have to do.

Heading for the stairwells, she made her way up onto the top floor, a restricted area that led towards the hotel's roof. She half contemplated picking the door's lock, but she wasn't really in the mood. So she took a step back, hoping that it wasn't wired to a security alarm, and with a well-placed kick, forced the door open.

And as Nyssa stepped out into the freezing Paris night, there he was, leaning against the railings to her left, looking at her with a most amused smile.

Oliver Queen stood along the Paris skyline, a vibrant glow of never-ending luminescence. "Guess we both needed some air."

She remained quiet for a moment, just staring in his direction before walking up beside him. The powerful breeze greeted her with ferocity, cresting her head in a fury of darkened frenzy. He was laughing when she had to pull her hair down towards her shoulders in embarrassment, preventing them from returning to their previous state of chaos.

"Are you angry at what I said?" She asked after a long silence. Their verbal exchange much reminiscent to the conversation they once held during his reveal of her father's plan for him to become heir.

"No," he replied immediately, adamant and resolute in his answer. "Not even the tiniest bit."

"Then why do you avoid my gaze?"

He did not reply, instead looking towards the towering buildings opposite. When he did, he remained impassive, his eyes forward. "Is that not what you wished for? To be freed of mine?"

"I…" She could not find the proper words. Instead, she reached out towards him, her fingers lightly brushing against the back of his palm. "I did not mean it in such a way."

"Then why?" He turned towards her, eyes burning with such intensity, her knees trembled in their presence. "Why did you pull away?"

"Because… I am afraid."

Her reply was barely above a softened whisper, "I've been taught to close my heart to such… emotions when I was a child. We were educated with the mantras of self-preservation; nothing existed beyond the importance of our own lives."

She could feel the growing lumps within her throat as she spoke of their past lover. "Sara was the one who showed me otherwise, the first person I've cared so much apart from my own. She taught me to embrace my nervousness and my uneasiness. She was the one who told me, to have felt such worry and care for another, was a physical indication of love itself."

"For a short while, there was bliss." She paused, "but nothing could have prepared me for when she was torn away from my side. The scars I've suffered before, they were but a fragment of the pain and loss that quickly came along. When she left, I was crippled, and I would rather face a thousand blades than to go through that once more."

"You see, Oliver," she reached out towards him, her fingers contrasting the cold Paris night, a warm graze across his cheeks. "If I opened more of myself to you..." She trembled, but not from the cold, "I am terrified of the thought… that when I inevitably lose you, there will be no salvation for me."

"You won't lose me." He replied with an unwavering conviction, "there exists nothing that can take me away from y-"

"Not even my father?" She exclaimed. "His plans were never that simple. Everything we've experienced and endured so far, we are like just mere specs of dust in his grand scheme! Once we've gotten everything else into place, when he no longer has a need for you, he will kill you."

"My father is the type of person… who will buy his child a sparrow, teaching her to care for the little bird, feeding and allowing it to mature, forming an unbreakable bond between the two. And when finally grown into adulthood, he would lock the two in a tiny barren cell, with nothing but a small knife and stacks of firewood." She exhaled softly at the painful memory, "I was given a  
simple choice. To either starve, or to kill my best friend and consume its flesh."

"And when I was a teenager, I became more interested in the outside world. I started to explore beyond the boundaries of our compound. My father disallowed it, and I've met plenty of times his fist and lashes whenever I disobeyed." She looked away, almost ashamed of what she had done. "One day, during the ends of winter, I headed towards the mountain's edge in order to see the break of spring. I convinced one of the maids to lie for me, and when I returned, he presented me with her… tongue."

For a moment, Oliver was reminded of the unspeaking old woman they came across during their stay inside of her father's castle. He took a deep breath before speaking. "Ra's is a cruel and powerful man." He caught onto her slipping fingers, preventing them from falling to her side. "But we have an advantage, something he doesn't."

"I will admit that I was wrong before. I made the worst of judgements with a mind clouded with uncertainty, of fear. I sought to face your father alone, I thought my sacrifice was worth the peace that it would bring." There was something in his eyes that resembled confidence, "what I've forgotten, was that my skills, my abilities, they weren't my greatest asset. What your father lacks, are the allies that I have."

"They're waiting for us back in Starling. I know of a man loyal beyond reproach; a hacker that could break through the toughest of firewalls without batting an eyelid; I know of a woman whose scream can shatter eardrums; of a man who could run faster than the speed of lightning itself."

"And most importantly," a soft reassuring smile, "you have me, and I have you."

Nyssa wasn't entirely convinced, but the tiny flash of hope that Oliver caught, it was all that he needed.

She was about to reply when someone loudly shouted in their direction from across the rooftop. Nyssa wasn't entirely fluent in French, but she heard something along the lines of, "trespassing," and from the man's stern tone and hotel security outfit, it was quite obvious why he was here.

A beam of light shone in their direction, a handheld torch that managed to catch only the flutters of their clothing as the two slipped off in the opposite direction.

**.**

* * *

**.**

**.**

Within the next few minutes, the two of them returned to their rooms, acting as though they've never even left. There was only another hour left before the start of the Summit, and as Oliver checked on their frequency scanner, he quickly realized that Viktor Dzubenko had already left the exhibition. Due to its extreme compact size, the tracker was unable to give precise details pertaining to the man's location and level, but they could pick up the broadcasting frequency with the scanner, easily following the signal to its source.

Right now, the signals no longer came in the direction of the exhibition halls, but from the floors above them, the rooms. He moved towards the master bedroom, finding Nyssa crouching over the briefcase of provided weaponry.

"He stopped moving. He must have returned to his room in order to prepare for his later speech."

She nodded in acknowledgement, while placing the larger and more inconvenient weapons aside. Nyssa always preferred traveling light, with concealed weapons that made barely a sound; hidden blades and poisoned needles, those were all that she needed.

Oliver watched as she removed a tiny sheathed blade, parting aside the ends of her dress as she slipped it somewhere up her thighs. Another went around her back, two underneath the fabric to each of her sides, followed by another two that went along her spine. He wouldn't deny how impressive it was, the way she calculatingly hid all of her blades beneath such thin layers of clothing.

A bundle of needles were removed next, followed by a syringe and a vial. Peeling off the vial's cover, she slid the syringe into the colored liquid before carefully applying it to the ends of each needle.

"Poison," she explained when noticing his growing curiosity. "It solidifies upon exposure to air, so I am not harmed while wielding them. But if they were to pierce flesh and come into contact with blood, there is a chemical reaction that reverts it back into its original potent state, ensuring a quick and certain death."

She brought one up to the light, watching as the liquid hardened around the needle. "One needle. And all is done."

When Oliver did not reply, she looked towards him, noticing the uneasiness across his unmoving features. She wasn't mistaken about his discomforted frown. His jaw lowered for a brief moment, like there was something he wanted to say.

She stood back up, "is something the matter?"

"Is there another way?"

"Another way?" She asked, visibly uncomfortable in the direction of their conversation.

"To not kill him."

She looked away, her palms clenched so tightly her knuckles bore white, "why are you asking me such foolish questions. My father's command is absolute."

"There must be something else we can do," he exhaled sharply, "we can warn him of the consequences, we can scare him away, we can-"

"It doesn't matter," she interrupted, "you've seen his file, he is not doing it for money or for fame. He believes in what he does, he will not back down."

"And it's because I've seen his file," he spoke in a fiery tone, "I cannot condemn an innocent man to die, much less aid in his death."

"The world is not such a merciful place." Firm sadness was held in her eyes, "there are just some things we cannot prevent, no matter how hard we try."

"Even so," he argued, "we must try."

"Oliver, how can you be so naïve and so guileless." She tried to smile at him, but all that came was a pained grin, "from the very start, you knew what my father wanted. You knew what you had to do."

"Do you think that the mission would result in us knocking on his door and politely asking him to not speak at the Summit?" She took a step forward in the direction of the exit, and as did he, effectively blocking her only way out.

"Please," her voice strained with a tug in her chest. "Do not stop me."

"Nyssa..." He begged, "there is still time."

She closed her eyes, they were still for a long moment, and in the next, she darted to his side, slipping past him and towards the exit.

Instinctively, Oliver turned and grasped at her fleeting form, his artificial arm finding the hem of her dress, a firm grip that held her in place. She stopped, their eyes meeting. He saw the unyielding determination that burned ever so brightly, but also of the hurt, the pain of them both ending up in such a predicament.

He was about to speak when her right leg shot to his side without warning. It slammed painfully into his ribs, causing him to loudly gasp as he released his grip. It wasn't as painful as it was stunning, but the second of momentary daze allowed her enough time to exit the room.

Gathering his breath, he chased after her, thankful that the corridors were empty and deserted for the time being. He caught up to her near the elevators, his prime advantage being that she needed time to calibrate a stronger frequency for the scanning device.

She saw him a split second too late, the full weight of his body colliding into hers, sending the two of them sprawling across the carpeted floors. She grunted as his weight pushed down onto her, trapping her beneath his powerful frame. His hand shot towards her wrist, trying to hold her still and trap her in place, but Nyssa read perfectly his movements. An arm slipped beneath his wild grasp, her hand latching onto the back of his head. She pulled him down, just as her other elbow quickly snapped upwards, catching him squarely in his jaw.

It sent him reeling backwards, enough for Nyssa to escape, but as she pulled herself back up onto her feet, it was like he had already recovered. He reacted as quickly as she did, his arms wrapping around her from behind, pinning her hands to her side, much akin to a wrestler's bear hug.

Suddenly, she felt herself being raised into the air, her legs struggling futilely beneath them. He carried her like a parent would to a child throwing an unnecessary tantrum, moving them back in the direction of their room. She thrashed wildly in his grip, but his size and her lack of balance gave him a considerable advantage.

Oliver managed to return them both into their hotel room, kicking the doors shut behind him when he felt a sudden sting of heat running across the side of his thighs. He was confused for a moment, before another stab of pain resulted in his weakening grip, allowing Nyssa to break free from his confine.

Looking down at the blood that dripped from torn fabric, he noticed the tiny blade that Nyssa held in her hand.

"Really?" An exasperated sigh.

She lunged towards him, the blade slicing across air as he took a step back. He ducked the next, choosing to keep a safe distance between them both. She wasn't aiming for his major artilleries, wasn't planning on killing him, but still, she was extremely proficient with a blade. His eyebrows creased in worry, he needed to close the distance between them both, entering a sort of grappling maneuver, locking her arms and preventing her from using her handheld weapons.

She didn't allow him much time for strategic planning, leaping towards him in the next instance. He allowed her thrust to go far, and as she did, he moved in, wrapping around her outstretched arm before she could regain her proper stance. But unlike how he managed to disarm her when he initially entered the room just hours ago, she was prepared for his counterattack this time round.

As his arms wrapped around hers, a hidden blade appeared in her free arm, another painful sting as it sliced across the front of his clothing. "Stop," he pleaded as he took a step back, "I don't want to fight you."

"Neither do I," she whispered between heavy breaths, "but I don't have a choice. You know what he'll do if I fail."

He reached for the couch's cushion beside him as she lanced in his direction, the blades sinking harmlessly into soft silk as he violently tugged the cushion to his side, breaking her grip on the weapon. The momentum sent her stumbling forward, as a clenched fist shot in her direction, knuckles smashing against the side of her temple. It staggered her forward, her hair falling over her face as she gripped onto the dining table for balance.

"I'm… Sorry?" He stuttered.

She glared at him, a frustrated growl as she jumped in his direction, a change in her usual meticulous fighting style. He caught onto her as she slammed into him, the two of them stumbling backwards and smashing into the hotel's wall, sending a picture frame crashing somewhere onto the floor below. Her arm shot towards his skull, but he managed to duck the blow, deflecting her to the side as he took a step forward and shoved her against the wall instead, effectively reversing their positions.

She pushed against him, but he managed to hold her still with the weight of his own. Her palms pressed against his chest, trying to push him off as his own dug into the side of her thighs with a roughened grip. They shot upwards with a heated graze, hiking up her skirt as they did. She felt a firm tug against the side of her legs, and she quickly realized that he was disarming her, a knife hastily thrown to the side, sinking into the opposite walls.

She struggled even harder, pushing them both a step backwards, but he still had a better grip on her, a twist that sent her spinning, her dominant arm locked against her back as he returned her face first against the wall. She groaned angrily in vexation, but she was trapped, she couldn't move. She felt his hand slipping beneath her dress once more, sliding up the front of her stomach, leaving fluttering trail as he found another blade strapped to her flesh, then another, and another.

She hoped he missed the one hidden by the side of her chest, but he quickly found that too. As he attempted to throw the knife away, she forcefully pushed back against him, her knees painfully kicking against the wall for further momentum. She broke free of his grasp, turning to face him, her arms swinging wildly in his direction.

He wasn't prepared for the first punch, it collided painfully against his nose, sending him stumbling backwards, tripping over the briefcases they've previously set up. He fell, but latched onto her clothing as he did, pulling her along as they tumbled onto the sizable bed behind.

They twisted and turned, their bodies getting entangled, and suddenly, he was on top of her again. But this time, he straddled her, trapping her lower half beneath him, his fingers firmly grasping onto both her wrists, pinning them to the bed by her sides. She struggled defiantly against him, trying to push him off, only for him to slam her back down, his face inches away from hers; there was little she could do in such a situation.

Their eyes met, and he quickly saw the anger, the desperation that grew within her. She struggled even harder, but they both knew it was a futile attempt. Her breaths soon came in short sharp bursts, her muscles straining as she pushed back against him. She tried a final time, and when all she accomplished was a waste of her remaining strength, she grew completely slack, a sudden flash of resignation crossing her eyes.

The anger quickly drained out of her, and what remained was a pitiful husk, a forlorn look of shame and acquiescence. She looked away, unwilling to catch his gaze, she was exhausted, and she knew she lost. When he released his grip on her wrist, she did not attempt to fight back.

It pained him to see her this way, defeated and in despair. A hand gently brushed against the side of her cheeks, pushing back darkened strands of stray hair as his forehead tiredly pressed down onto hers.

"I'm sorry…" He whispered, he did not know what else to do, to say.

And so, he kissed her.

It wasn't the longing kiss of star-crossed lovers, neither was it resembling anything close to a passionate embrace. Instead, it was merely the brief contact of their lips, nothing more.

He pulled back, "I'm sorry." He repeated his apology, not sure whether it was from hurting her, or for what he had just done. "I shouldn't have-"

But before he could finish his sentence, her head tilted towards his, and she kissed him back. And it was suddenly a lot more than just the mere contact of their lips.

His hands clasped onto the side of her face in return, one warm, the other cold, pulling her closer as they engaged in a ferocious clash. She greeted him with equal and renewed vigor, her hands tangling into his hair, legs curling into his side. They broke free for a brief moment, a gasp of air as her back arched against him, her chest desperately wanting to break free from the suffocating dress. He understood her frustrated groans, his hands instantly slipped away from her cheeks, leaving a burning void in its midst; he reached behind her, trying to find the dress's zipper.

He couldn't, and with an irritated growl, reached towards her neckline instead. A firm grip on both ends as he forcefully ripped the fabric apart, revealing clad breasts that jutted towards him, begging to be touched. She trembled as his hands grazed across the silken fabric, a soft whimper as he found one in a single scoop, a wave of heated pleasure that shot towards her core.

She was panting, and he quickly realized, so was he. They were already on the bed from their previous altercation; no further time wasted as they broke apart for another brief moment, just allowing him to tug his jacket off, his tie roughly tossed away. And as he did, she hastily slipped off her torn dress, her undergarments discarded to the side, barely having time to register both their nakedness before his body closed the gap between theirs once more.

Nyssa had plenty of relationships in the past, but Oliver was her first as a man. She reached between their touching bodies, finding him and squeezed; it excited her, the groans she incited, the way it felt and trembled in her grasp. She guided him towards her aching center, visibly aware of how wet she already was; no further preparations were required.

He pushed inside of her with a single stroke, sending her into a loud gasp, assaulted by a mixture of both diminishing pain and increasing pleasure. Her nails dug into his exposed back, her legs crossed behind him. Oliver paused for a moment, as though he was allowing her to adjust to his size. Then, he was moving, his hips a powerful thrust as his heated breath washed across her flushed skin.

A hand pressed down onto her thighs, spreading them wider as his lips returned to hers, and suddenly, she found herself shuddering in the intensity of her first climax, face buried into his chest as she trembled uncontrollably around him. He turned completely still, gentle arms wrapping around her, tenderly holding her close as she slowly regained her composure.

Her fingers cupped to the side of his face, an exhausted but content smile, telling him that she was alright. She reached up to kiss him, along with a soft but needy whisper, "continue."

He slid his arms underneath her back, his heading dipping forward, lips against hers, eyes fluttering shut as he resumed his movements. As the kiss deepened, so did the thrust of his hips, an impatient push that drew her closer to another one of her own. She felt him starting to groan, his powerful muscles tensing as she started to push harder against him, her thighs squeezing against his waist, locking and preventing him from stopping.

Their varying rhythm, the intensity and speed, it grew ever stronger, and at its peak, Oliver found himself losing the strength to hold back, a final thrust as his orgasm tore through him with unbridled fury, causing him to collapse over his female companion. And as he did, so did she, a reverberating wave that expanded and engulfed her whole, sending her trembling in its aftermath.

He fell onto the bed beside her, and they remained like that for the longest time. Their exhausted breathing and the gradual rising and falling of their chests the only remaining indication of their existence.

**Author's Note:**

> Do leave a review if you enjoy (;


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